


Chaperones

by Wheel_of_Whimsy



Series: Forever Flintwood [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Courting Rituals, Crabbe is also alive but only for the purposes of like one sentence, Dating, Everything is Beautiful and Nothing Hurts, F/M, Fluff, Fred Weasley Lives, M/M, Marriage Contracts, Pureblood Culture (Harry Potter), Pureblood Politics (Harry Potter), Pureblood Society (Harry Potter)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:16:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24499291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheel_of_Whimsy/pseuds/Wheel_of_Whimsy
Summary: Marcus and Oliver get stuck chaperoning. It devolves into double-dating pretty quickly.
Relationships: Its a surprise! - Relationship, Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Forever Flintwood [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2139930
Comments: 50
Kudos: 174





	1. The Arrangement

The sprawling lawn of Flint Manor looked especially nice in mid-Spring. Although the original structure, built in the 1200s, mostly burned down in the late 17th century, it was successfully rebuilt by the Minister for Magic at the time, Josephina Flint. Being a product of the Victorian era, it boasted a few tall spires (but not so many as the grandiose and ostentatious Malfoy manor) and a large circular conservatory attached at the east wing. The front walkway was lined with shrubs and along the front of the house stood a stone covered porch, neatly framed by Roman archways all around. The manor, made of pale yellow stone typical of Somerset county where it resided, loomed over the luscious gardens framing the various stone walkways. A number of fountains broke up the greenery, but there was scarcely any flat grass on the large lawn. The bushes and various shrubberies made good fun for children to play in, as Marcus was familiar with, but the stone steps leading to and from the entryways did not make for fun falling down. On his ninth birthday, for instance, he fell from the stone veranda and broke his wrist, swiftly followed by his then five year old cousin Pansy, who luckily escaped major injury by cushioning her fall on top of him.

With that happy memory in mind, Marcus stepped onto the stairway carefully and gave a short bow to the now-grown cousin waiting at the base. Pansy offered her own bow with a pursed mouth and then waited for him to offer his arm, pointedly blinking at him and impatiently tapping her foot on the flagstones. He huffed and jutted out an elbow, which she demurely wrapped her much smaller hands around, and turned to escort her into the manor properly.

“So nice of you to finally invite me for tea,” she said a little waspishly, “I was beginning to think you’d never have me over after the war ended.” She sniffed and pointed her nose to one of the decorative portraits lining the entryway (a unicorn and manticore facing off in battle). If Marcus wasn’t so familiar with her he might’ve missed the telltale undercurrent of actual hurt feelings in her voice. He sighed internally and cracked his jaw once as they entered the solarium for tea. 

“I had to remodel, you know,” he pointed out. Unnecessarily, he thought to himself, as you could still see a number of scaffoldings laying about, left behind by the awful number of people required to retile a ballroom floor-to-ceiling. She sniffed again, but he could tell that his not-apology soothed her a bit. Ever since she was small he was the guardian she didn’t have. They shared more experiences in these halls than the few pureblooded siblings he knew as they were basically raised side by side. Her mother and father, the Lord and Lady Parkinson, were fairly normal among wizard folk. Except for Draco Malfoy and Blaise Zabini, Flint didn’t know many other Slytherins with young parents. His own father, Atticus Flint, was 127 at his graduation from Hogwarts and his mother, Araminta Flint nee Lefrancois, just celebrated her 75th birthday at the Ministry Gala commemorating the first anniversary of the end of the war. Pansy, likewise, had a mother well into her 50s and her father entering his 90s, although he was far less spry than even Marcus’s now deceased father and in fact could be considered infirm by many.

They finally entered the solarium to a petite table set for four at teatime. One elderly house elf stood by with a teapot, its eyes squinted shut against the large amount of sunlight flooding the room. The song of nearby snidgets echoed in the high vaulted ceilings. Flint pulled out Pansy’s chair and lowered her in, as he’d been taught, then reached out for the silver tea tray. The filigree always annoyed him as a child, as he was always the one made to hold onto the pointed and curling edges, but now just reminded him of his family and the long line of Flints that lived in these halls before him. The elf disappeared with a light pop and he settled the tray on the table. 

Pansy served herself without waiting for him to get comfortable. With no supervisors to watch their every move they didn’t have to obey every letter of etiquette. It was also due to this that Pansy took her tea as she actually preferred: half milk, half tea, and three cubes of sugar. Marcus wrinkled his nose at the almost white mixture in her cup and then poured himself some steaming black tea. He added a single cube of sugar and nothing else, grabbing a scone to dip into the piping hot mixture. 

“Well,” Pansy began with an all too familiar twist to her mouth, “I suppose I should tell you why I’ve bashed in your front door and intruded on your enforced solitude in this time of crisis.” She was of course, referring to the break in the quidditch season. Spending the war in mainland Europe, ostensibly to work on his Quidditch abilities and definitely not to maintain the notorious Flint neutrality, Flint accepted a position with the Falmouth Falcons just after the conclusion of the Battle of Hogwarts. A year later, the dreaded off season was setting in with a vengeance… hence the remodeling. 

“I’m well, thank you for asking,” Marcus supplied, sipping on his tea, “Mother is also well, although her wrists pain her. The healer says it’s arthritis, can you believe? And how is Aunt Elianne?” 

“Don’t smalltalk me,” Pansy hissed, setting her cup down a little violently. The porcelain made a clattering sound and she quickly picked it up, eyeing the bottom of the cup for a leak and the saucer for a chip. Marcus shook his head at her and took an overly large bite of his scone to avoid answering. It had blackberries in it, which was disgusting.

“As I was saying--”

“You hadn’t actually got that far,” Marcus interjected and set the scone down. A few crumbs fell away from his mouth as he rushed to interrupt her. She slapped his hand in retaliation. 

“ _As I was saying_ ,” she said pointedly and picked up a scone for herself, “I wanted to talk to you about my marriage prospects." Marcus promptly choked on what was left over in his mouth. The seeds from the blackberries seemed to be sticking to his teeth. 

“What in the _world_ do you have to worry about marriage prospects?” He said with no small amount of irritation. He coughed a few times and finally swallowed the disgusting concoction of tea and blackberry scone, then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his robe. Pansy frowned severely at him and practically flung a napkin at his face. 

“It can’t have escaped your notice that people in our age group are pairing off to begin a brand new post-war baby boom,” she said bluntly and he winced accordingly. Malfoy was only one of their many friends and acquaintances scheduling engagement parties recently. Zabini and Greengrass, Greengrass and Malfoy, even Mulciber in Marcus’s group was courting a Romanian pureblood by the name of Ana-Christina Popova. Meeting her was like experiencing the 1994 Quidditch World Cup half-time show all over again except with less dancing and more glitter, somehow. 

“What is your point?” He bit out. It made him immeasurably uncomfortable to imagine his fairly young cousin being engaged. It just wasn’t the norm in the wizarding world. What was typical was the ages of his own parents and hers as well. 

“I just want to have somebody… and to be able to enjoy my children before I’m old and feeble,” Pansy said lowly. She stirred her tea without looking at him. Marcus took a moment to think. Sure, growing up was hard with a father a century older than him and a mother much too old to ‘play’, but they had each other and others in their age group. But… it would be nice to see Pansy happy, for once, and her designer robe line could only take up so much time in the day. 

“What, uh,” Marcus stuttered over the heavy words, “What sort of time frame were you hoping for?” he eventually forced out.

Pansy looked a little surprised at the lack of fight from her typically brutish cousin, “Well,” she began unsurely, “I think I’d like to have children before I’m thirty or so. Mummy was nearly fifty when she had me and I was the only one she was able to carry. Daddy told me he wished he had me earlier and I think he wants a grandchild to spoil before he gets obscenely old.” 

Marcus nodded to her and down at his cup, grabbing it and taking a large swig. A little trickled out of the corner of his mouth and he hastily swapped it away with the napkin at her harsh look. Thinking it over, this sounded really simple. Find somebody compatible with Pansy, try not to sully the bloodline overly so, plan a wedding, and wait. Simple, neat, compact, he could get this done by the end of the off season. 

“Alright, you’ve convinced me,” he said grandly. Pansy rolled her eyes and poured herself another half cup of tea and half cup of milk, “But who did you have in mind, if anyone?” 

“I’m glad you asked!” She said with a smile, and reached into her robe. She pulled out a miniature book and waved her wand over it, enlarging it to encompass a square foot of space. She opened it to the Parkinson family tree, bookmarked for ease of access, and pulled out a piece of parchment. A list of names went down the side and she handed it to him. He glanced over it and furrowed his brow, opening and shutting his mouth a few times. 

“This is the list?” he asked dumbly and she nodded, seemingly satisfied with herself. He gulped a little and noted a few, _ahem_ , relations. “Well, I supposed as long as you’re happy it doesn’t matter how closely we’re related,” he muttered.

Pansy stopped her cup on the way to her mouth and set it down, slapping the book down to the table where Marcus was tilting it up, “No!” She said loudly enough that it echoed off the glass walls, “This is the list of people I will not accept, you prat!” her face was a dark puce by the time she finished and she took a gulp of tea to still herself, unbuttoning the clasp of her robe and letting it hang off the back of the chair. 

“Right, right,” Marcus said quickly, setting the list to the side. It had quite a few names on it, drastically limiting their dating pool. 

“You are insufferable,” His cousin said venomously, grabbing another scone and breaking it in half. He winced in sympathy. 

Marcus looked over the list again and used his tongue to prod at one of the seeds caught in his teeth, “There’s quite a few names here,” he said finally. Indeed, everyone they knew who currently had a significant other was on the list as well as up to third cousins by blood. Thankfully, due to the elderly nature of their houses, the inbreeding was kept in check. The Flints and Parkinsons were stringently pureblooded and members of the sacred twenty-eight, founding members of the wizengamot, and close allies. The list of names barred from dating Pansy would necessitate some… out of the box thinking. 

“Have you considered Crabbe and Goyle?” he said haltingly and flinched away from the stinging hex she sent at him under the table. 

“Add them to the list,” she said darkly and he conjured a quill to quickly do so. He shook his head and looked over the parchment again, leaning over it and placing his elbow on the table to hold up his head. They sat in silence for a few minutes, only the sound of spoons on porcelain and quill on parchment filling the air. A quiet click-clack came through the halls and Marcus stood suddenly, scooting his chair back and untying his cloak quickly. He laid it on the back of his chair like Pansy and strode to the door to the solarium just as his mother revealed herself in the arch of the french doors. 

Araminta Flint nee Lefrancois had a straight, aristocratic nose that ended sharply before it could hook and pale grey eyes she shared with her son. Aside from those two traits, they were nearly as night and day. Her pale silver hair was streaked with dusky blonde and pulled back into a high, tight bun at the top of her head. Her eyes had thin crows’ feet and the corners of her mouth had equally thin laugh lines. She wore pale blue and gray robes and walked on short heeled shoes. Marcus offered her his arm without prompting and helped her into the solarium. Pansy, having already stood when Marcus did, waited politely for the elderly woman to approach before offering her arms.

“Aunt Minty!” she said happily and took the thin older woman’s shoulders in her arms. The Lady Flint pressed the palms of her hands to Pansy’s shoulder blades and her cheek to Pansy’s cheek delicately. 

“Pansy, what eez the reason for your vee-zit?” she said in lightly accented English. Her French heritage only showed in her bearing and accent, which she tried repeatedly to eradicate to no avail. 

“Well, Auntie,” Pansy began, “I was hoping that Cousin Marcus would help me find a suitor!” she pushed excitement into her voice and they both watched the older woman purse her lips in confusion. Marcus offered his arm again and pulled out his mother’s chair to help her sit down. 

“That eez interesting,” she said slowly, “You know zat I was twice your age when I started looking for a huz-band?” Marcus poured her a cup of tea and mixed it to her liking, two sugars and a splash of milk at the end, and handed it to her before taking a seat. 

“Yes, Auntie, but Daddy is so excited to begin the search for the sire of his grandchild,” Pansy opened with and then wrinkled her nose at her own wording, “Well, I’m excited too. I would like to have children before I’m, well, uh…” she blushed and took a sip of tea. Marcus was no help as he crammed another bite of disgusting scone into his gob to avoid participating. 

“Before you are old like me?” Araminta said casually with a bright smile. She was a beautiful, if dangerously so, woman. In her Beauxbatons days it was no wonder she had the pick of any pureblood she could ask for. How his oafish father, who Marcus embodied more and more every day it seemed, won her over he would never know. 

Pansy blushed appropriately but nodded all the same, “Yes, yes, but we’ve run up against a snag in the plan,” she pointed at the parchment and then the family tree, “those are all the boys I refuse to have any sort of … _dalliance_ with and you can see it kind of limits our prospects a bit.” 

“Hmm,” the Lady hummed and ran her finger over the list. She seemed to be thinking hard. Marcus subtly pushed the scone behind the basket so his mother wouldn’t be able to see it and grabbed a muffin. 

“‘Ave you left the island for your search?” she said finally and she and Pansy discussed the pros and cons of going mainland in their search, which Pansy was mostly against as she needed to live in Parkinson manor and she also needed a suitable match that happened to also be second or later born. As the heir to the Parkinson Ladyship and having no brothers or other heirs in sight, whoever she married would need to either hyphenate or completely abandon their family name and take the Parkinson name and all their children would be Parkinsons. That further limited the pool as the number of sibling pairs in the wizarding world was drastically reduced since the first Voldemort war in the ‘70s and ‘80s. 

“Zee Nott boy, T-ee-odore? He is the youngest of his family and a good match,” Araminta said dubiously, “Zee Patil family also has two daughters. Blood adoption eez no shame,” the Lady did not mince words. It wasn’t unheard of for an elderly couple unable to sire children, or even a same-sex couple, to adopt a magically gifted child and blood adopt after filing with the ministry. It wasn’t even illegal, per se, if you went through the correct channels. Pansy thought for a moment and then shook her head with a sigh.

“No, I’m woefully straight and although the Ravenclaw one is alright, her sister is terribly vapid and I’m unsure which is which. Not to mention I don’t just want companionship,” Pansy trailed off. Love wasn’t often a factor in a pureblood marriage contract, but many arranged marriages grew fond of each other. The Malfoys stood as one of the brighter spots on the map, having dated in Hogwarts and negotiated with their own families for their marriage to happen. Flint’s mother and father, however, had such a large age gap that he had no doubt his mother’s agreement on their marriage was more of a political play. 

By taking the Flint name, she married into one of the sacred twenty eight and became the wife of a liege lord over three other houses, not to mention the voting block the Flints enjoyed through various alliances and political influence. They were also wealthy in the way most purebloods were and didn’t want for anything. The Lefrancois family, her own in France, was a minor pureblood house (not Ancient, only Noble) and, although they boasted generations of elite breeding, the various wars in France throughout the long 19th century left them with less money than many families wanted to speak of. Being one of three children, and the youngest daughter, she stood to inherit very little unless a good match was made. Atticus Flint stepped into that role nicely and accepted her small dowry with grace.

Still, all that aside, Marcus couldn’t begrudge Pansy her romantic wishes. Ever since she was a child she always spoke about a dashing young lord who would bring her flowers and go to galas with her and raise her children alongside her. He couldn’t say the image didn’t have its draws, even the part about a lord, but he knew he would probably be more traditional and marry late in life, if ever, he thought cynically.

His mother hummed again and leaned back in her chair, bringing out her laurel wood wand and twirling it in the air. The lineage book danced in the air for a moment and then fluttered toward the end. She pressed her wand down on its pages and it fell to the tabletop. Marcus and Pansy both leaned close and looked down at the page and then back up at each other, shocked. 

“Mother, you can’t be serious,” Marcus stated dully. Pansy, equally flummoxed, sat in her chair and tried to shut her gaping jaw. His mother shook her head and laughed slightly.

“Stranger bedfellows ‘ave been ‘ad, my loves,” she said mysteriously, “‘e eez smart, I know, and ‘e eez brave. ‘E fought in zee battle and ‘e is from a good family.” Marcus gulped and leaned forward to push again, but Pansy halted him with a hand on his arm. She seemed to be thinking quite hard and nodding firmly. 

“He would take my name, I could use my connections to push him through the ministry. He’s not _completely_ insufferable… I could make that work! Auntie! You’re a genius!” Pansy stood and wrapped her arms around the thin old woman amidst her laughter and Marcus leaned heavily on the tabletop, peering down at the thick parchment highlighting a single name. 

_Percy Weasley_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I recently fell in love with this pairing and i wanted to add something nice and short and accidentally wrote the longest thing I've ever written in my life.
> 
> For flint manor: https://media-cdn.tripadvisor.com/media/photo-m/1280/14/ef/39/6e/beautiful-preserved-manor.jpg
> 
> And Araminta Flint is based off of Madame de Pompadour from France.  
> https://waldinadotcom.files.wordpress.com/2018/12/pompadour-01.jpg


	2. The Offer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marcus pays a visit to the Weasley clan

Although Flint never saw the old Weasley house before the war, the one in front of him still managed to look homey as well as ridiculous. Apparently it suffered some fire damage in 1996 and with the influx of gold from Mr. Weasley’s promotion at work alongside their reduced expenditures from so many children moving out into successful careers they rebuilt it in a similar but less ramshackle pattern. It stood on stone foundation with windows looking into a basement or smokehouse of sorts and two covered porches held up slanting rooftops. The entire roof itself looked like one long sorting hat, really, and drooped to hang and curve around every cranny of the house itself, framing the dormer windows in a cartoonish way. It didn’t sag, though, and it didn’t look unfriendly. There was a tin garage some distance away that actually looked like it had elec-trillerby or whatever the muggles called it that lit their lamps. Regardless, Marcus started up the path. His apparition only carried him to the end of the long driveway and he had to walk along the fieldside to get to the house itself. 

Up close the house had even more character, and one of the upper rooms even had a covered balcony in a triangular shape. It was so odd it was almost endearing, but served to create a very unique building that made Flint a little uncomfortable. Finally he reached the house and stepped up to the first porch, quickly knocking on the door before he could convince himself to just owl like a cad. 

There was quite a lot of noise on the other side of the door. A bit of rustling and slamming, pots slamming together, and not a little amount of yelling. The doorknob twisted and the door flung open, revealing the terrible twins themselves. Marcus refrained from curling his lip only barely and enjoyed their gobsmacked expressions for almost half a minute before they deigned to speak to him.

“Forge, I don’t believe my eyes,” one began.

“Yes, Gred, I don’t believe your eyes either,” the other picked up, “but I suppose I’m seeing Marcus Flint on our doorstep! What are the odds, do you suppose?” 

Marcus gave into his urges and pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing deeply and reminding himself that this was all for Pansy, who he actually did care about… right. Just as he was about to light into them, a sturdy woman with thick red hair and wearing a simple but nice green and blue dress with a shawl on her shoulders approached behind them. 

“Frederick Fabian, George Gideon! You know how to answer the door for guests!” she all but shrieked. Only through years of schooling with the various Weasley children and numerous howlers was Flint able to hold in a wince. She was quite loud. She ushered the two young men behind her where they lurked slightly behind the door. To her credit, she gave him a welcoming, if confused, smile.

“Can I help you, young man?” 

“Lady Weasley,” Marcus said stiffly, because she actually  _ was  _ the Lady Prewitt even if she wasn’t married to the current Lord Weasley and even if they didn’t refer to themselves as such, “I have come to speak with you and Lord Weasley on a matter of great familial importance.” 

Molly Weasley looked gobsmacked and the twins behind her equally so. There was a noticeable silence in the previously raucous household. The lady of the house laid her hand on the door frame and parted her lips silently a few times before opening the door further and ushering him in, “Oh please don’t call me such, dear. I’m just Molly or Mrs. Weasley if you must. No ceremony needed here,” she said quickly and shut the door behind him. 

He ducked a little under the awning. Inheriting the Flint height was a mixed blessing and curse. The inside of the house was just as homey as the outside, if not less cramped than he expected. But a magic house was, after all, magic. There was thick muggle-ish looking carpet on the floor and two couches around a low coffee table. A card game was spread out on it. Against the far wall, being framed by the couches, was a large fireplace. On the opposite wall was the staircase leading up into the house properly and then a large archway led into the kitchen. He could see the family clock just barely on the far wall. The one in his house was conspicuously less populated, but he doubted anyone in the wizarding world could boast the family size that the Weasleys did. She ushered him past the gawking young adults settled on the chairs, including the chosen one himself and two more of her children, and through the archway, then through another doorway into a dining room. 

“George, find your father and send him into the house, please!” she called back into the living area, “Now, dear, would you like some tea?” she said plaintively, obviously looking for something to do as she wrung her hands. 

“Please, ma’am, that would be lovely,” he grated out. Marcus  _ had _ manners, ok? He just chose not to use them often and with people he didn’t like. It was clear she meant for him to remain in the dining room but since she didn’t say anything he followed her to the kitchen, unclasping his cloak and holding it in his hands. Luckily he was just in his regular clothing and not any Wizengamot formal-wear so he wouldn’t make anyone… unduly uncomfortable. 

She fritted about and made them an entire tray of tea and biscuits, some out of a box like Marcus had never seen before. He supposed they must be muggle. He didn’t really care but they looked delicious, covered in chocolate, and definitely lacking any berries of any sort. There was a tense silence in the living area broken by feverish whispering and he held back a smirk.

“Would you like help, madame?” he asked politely, if roughly, but she smiled nervously back at him and bustled him back into the dining area just as the front door burst open. 

“Oh, that’ll be Arthur. Just in time for tea,” she said and herded Marcus towards a chair. Lord Weasley came through the door looking windblown and covered in what could only be sawdust and a smeared black substance across his forehead. Molly cast a number of spells to clean him up amidst his blubbering and stammering while Marcus blocked a smile with one of the delicious muggle treats. 

‘What  _ are _ these?” he said finally, “I know they must be muggle, but I didn’t know they knew how to make a decent biscuit.” It couldn’t help to be nice about muggles to the muggle lovers, right? And they really were quite good.

“Those?” Molly said as Arthur took a seat, “Chocolate digestives, picked them up in the village today. Do you like them, then?” she finished and cast a slew of spells at the door. Marcus nodded obediently and took another few onto his saucer. Arthur was already seated and neither seemed fussed about tradition or decorum, so he didn’t offer his hand to the patriarch. 

“I don’t know if you know, but my name is Marcus Flint, Lord of House Flint,” he started.

“Oh, terribly sorry to hear about your father. He was getting on in age but you never like to see a young person lose their family,” Arthur said with a sympathetic frown. Molly paused in her pouring of the tea and patted Marcus’s shoulder with a simpering, “Oh you poor dear.”

“Yes,” Marcus said, startled, “He was quite old, thank you for ...that. But I am here on family business, as I told Lady Weasley at the door.” 

Molly frowned at the ‘Lady’ but Arthur nodded resolutely, “Quite right, quite right. What did you need to discuss, then? We haven’t had dealings with the Flints since the 1830s roundabouts.”

“1845, actually, but that was just a business deal. I’m here to offer something a little more binding.” Marcus carefully extracted the contract from his pocket and unfolded the crisp parchment, laying it on the table, “Your son, Percy, is, frankly, a very eligible bachelor. Your eldest will inherit the Weasley Lordship and the dragon tamer will be Lord Prewitt. As third in line for anything, my cousin Pansy is quite interested in him.” 

Molly and Arthur both stilled, Arthur with his teacup still pressed to his lips. Molly’s cup clattered back to her plate as she barely lifted it off a moment before. They both looked flummoxed. 

“You want our Percy… to marry a Flint?” Molly said quietly. Marcus shook his head and pointed at the contract header.

“Actually, Pansy is the sole heir to the Parkinson Lordship, fortune, and estate. We’ve put this together, hopefully to your liking, but the gist is that Percy and Pansy would marry and we would form a triad marriage alliance. Pansy is under my protection and one of my closest cousins, so the Weasleys would fall under the Flint protection as well as the Parkinson’s.” Flint opened, hoping this would be a draw for them. Arthur pulled in a ragged breath as he set down his cup.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Flint,” Marcus ignored the slight in title as he was sure the Weasley didn’t mean anything by it… yet, “but I couldn’t in good conscience marry off my son with no regard to his feelings. It’s almost barbaric, what you’re suggesting.” 

Marcus furrowed his brow and tried not to be offended. His own parents were in an arranged marriage and so were the majority of all purebloods today. This was hardly medieval treatment and far from purely business as well.

“No, you misunderstand me,” he tried, “I want you to agree to a courting period. We would like a six month courting period where Percy and Pansy are chaperoned on a minimum of twelve dates, followed by six more months of un-chaperoned dates. Then you would make a decision with him whether you would like to pursue the full marriage contract.” 

Once again, both Weasleys looked too shocked to participate in any conversation. He left them to it and stole another biscuit, dipping it into his tea. They really were quite good and dunked nicely with no crumbling. They leaned towards each other and began furiously whispering, but he couldn’t hear anything over the sounds of his own chewing and the scuffling near the door. Subtly, he fired another silencing spell at the gap between the hinges and heard a faint thump on the other side. 

“We could… talk to Percy about this,” Arthur said delicately, “But what would be different about the marriage contract?” 

“You can keep this one,” Marcus said, scooting the parchment across the table, “That’s just the courting document about the dates and such. We would draw up a formal agreement if you agreed to the marriage, but basically you would receive a dowry from the Parkinsons and the Flints because of our familial ties and the nature of the alliance, they would marry, and Percy would either hyphenate or take the Parkinson name--that part is non-negotiable,” he said firmly, “Pansy’s children will all be eligible to inherit the Parkinson estate and lordship, so you can imagine the difficulty it is finding a son willing to disinherit himself.” 

“Percy would never be disinherited,” Molly bit out, flushing a dark red. That Prewitt temper all her children were famous for reared up in protection of her slightly oddball son. Arthur patted her hand but nodded alongside her all the same.

“No,” Marcus said, again extremely confused, “but he will theoretically have to legally change his name to Parkinson, which usually nullifies patrilineal inheritance laws.” Both Weasleys seemed to think this over before Arthur reached out and took the parchment, rolling it up and putting it into his coat pocket. Marcus nodded, satisfied, and stood.

“Will you at least consider it?” He said stiffly and Arthur finally offered his hand.

“We will bring it up with Percy, but his word is final,” Arthur said stoically, or as stoically as a man like him could, “And who would be Pansy’s chaperone, if I may ask?”

“Oh,” Marcus said, raising his eyebrows, “That would be me.” He grinned a little, his still slightly bucked teeth from puberty poking out from behind his lips. They exited the dining room to a pile of teens and young adults collapsed in front of the door, and Molly flushed a shade of puce not dissimilar to Pansy when she was angry. They scattered like bugs in her wake.

Arthur nodded and pulled Molly alongside him to the fireplace and they both watched Marcus fasten his cloak. Molly held out the floo powder urn and he obediently took a handful. It was a burgundy color and he shook his head as he stepped into the hearth. 

“I look forward to hearing from you,” he said diplomatically, which he thought was quite mature if he did say so himself, and threw the powder down, shouting, “Flint Manor.” And disappeared in a blaze of red flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reference for the weasley house  
> https://pbs.twimg.com/media/EMUwyugXsAAEoS9.jpg


	3. The Decision

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Percy uses Oliver as a sounding board.

“The chasers are looking excellent so far,” Wood said loudly, tossing a miniature quaffle into the air and catching it again, “Of course, it’s the off season now and we can’t get any practice in without breaking league regulations, but I think we have a sure shot at the cup next year.” 

Percy hummed back at his friend and scritched his quill over parchment once more. He seemed more preoccupied than usual. Ordinarily Oliver could get him to listen up to the seekers but this time he only got through his own role as keeper and the chasers. The redhead seemed atypically distracted, even as he looked to be writing a veritable treatise on knight bus regulations and international portkey licenses. His transfer from the office of the minister to that of transportation brought more paperwork home than summer holidays from Hogwarts. 

“And then I offered to be the seeker next year, as everyone is always telling me how nimble and lithe I am,” Oliver offered candidly, crossing his arms. His maroon Weasley sweater, courtesy of Mrs. Weasley every year since he turned eleven, caught tightly on his biceps. Percy nodded absently again as he bit a fingernail. Wood huffed and placed both his palms flat on the picnic table they sat at, leaning over Percy’s workstation and blocking the sunlight. Personally, he preferred his own native Scotland’s dreary overcast days to the comparably sunny Devon countryside. Percy rarely visited Oliver’s home in the North, though, as his mother preferred to host guests than to let her children gallivant around the country. Merlin grant the woman peace, but she was overprotective. That being said, Wood quite enjoyed visiting Percy, now they were both grown and out of the house, but Percy’s one bedroom flat in the center of London just didn’t have the same charm as the Burrow’s back yard. The open fields surrounding Ottery St. Catchpole were particularly lovely in Spring and now that the new Burrow was completely finished it was nice to be in the mostly magical neighborhood once again. Oliver reminded himself to stop and say hello to the Diggorys before he apparated home. 

“Out with it then,” he said to the top of Percy’s head. The quill stopped scratching immediately and he could almost hear the younger boy gulp.

“I…” Percy began, sitting back on the bench and twisting his hands in his lap. The quill dropped harmlessly to the tabletop, “I have been, ahem, _propositioned_.” 

Oliver paused, blinking his brown eyes slowly just once. Then he laughed. 

“It’s not a joke, Oliver!” The normally over-composed wizard said, standing up and almost tripping over the legs of the table, “Mum and Dad firecalled me in a panic last week and I’ve not had a moment’s rest ever since! They didn’t let anyone eavesdrop and certainly haven’t told any of the others, so I’ve nobody to talk to about this and everyone keeps hounding me about what was said behind closed doors _in my absence_ and I don’t want to talk to anyone else besides you and now you’re _laughing!”_ He ended on a great huff, bunching his curly hair in his fists and taking a step away from the table. His glasses flashed a little in the sunlight as he twisted away. 

Oliver stopped and stepped around the table, slapping his larger hands on Percy’s shoulders, “Oi, mate,” he said slowly, “Didn’t mean to take the mickey, but I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re on about.” 

Percy took a number of careful breaths and lowered his hands, pulling his glasses off and wiping them on his shirt, “I mean to say that an offer for courtship has been extended to my parents, and pending my approval we would begin contractual negotiations… for a not so distant marriage.” 

Wood paused to take that in and put his curled fists on his hips, “You’ve got a pureblood bird hounding you for an engagement?” he said in bafflement. Percy looked slightly offended and entirely mutinous. Oliver quickly backtracked.

“Not that I mean anything by that,” he said in a rush, “but, uh, who? Could be a bloke I guess,” he said belatedly, almost as an afterthought. But really, Percy only ever mentioned ladies in their Hogwarts days (and spending every day together with only each other as company opened your eyes to a person’s preferences), dating Penelope in their later years and, more recently, Audrey at the ministry. That last relationship ended quite suddenly, apparently of mutual accord as they frequently had lunch together still and Percy mentioned her often in his letters. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I said,” Percy intoned, entering a sulk. He sat down at the table heavily and placed his head in his hands. Oliver sat next to him, facing out to the fields and leaning back on the tabletop. 

“C’mon now, Percy,” he cajoled, “You’ve never told a lie in your life. Butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth, you know.” The teasing elicited a soft snort of laughter from the taciturn redhead, who sat up and turned around in his seat to join Oliver looking out at the fields.

“Parkinson,” he said softly after a few moments of silence. That word clearly weighed heavily on his mind as he delivered it with enough gravity Oliver was reminded of a funeral service. 

“Bit young, eh?” he said thoughtlessly. And then could have kicked himself. Percy shoved him but didn’t seem too ruffled.

“Ron’s age, yeah,” Percy clarified, “But it’s only a four year age gap. Mum and Dad are just about that and most purebloods are even further apart in age, you know.” Percy pushed his glasses up his nose and seemed to return to his usually prim self.

“Four years? That’s not bad then,” Oliver replied absently, “Egads, my parents are over a decade apart!” 

Percy laughed outright and shook his head at his best friend, “Pansy’s parents have nearly forty years between them. I think the Malfoys are the outlier in this data set. They were in the same year at Hogwarts, but if you’ve ever asked around then you’d hear they basically negotiated their own marriage to their parents,” he wiped his sweaty hands on his pants and stood up, “But it was a good match…” 

Oliver looked up and watched Percy as the skinny man paced around the small clearing. The rest area was underneath one of the few trees in the field and the grass was fittingly short, sometimes patchy in places where sunlight failed to trickle through. He knew if he stood he would be able to see the Rookery over the hill and the Burrow back the way they came. There were faint explosive noises coming from there, actually. Best to stay out a bit longer. 

“You think Parkinson has changed at all since school?” Oliver wondered aloud, “She was a bit of a nasty one, eh?”

“Bit of an understatement, really,” Percy said flippantly and crossed his arms as he paced under the tree, “She was quite the bully, as Ron tells it actually. And her family, while legally declared neutral or what have you, tends to lean to the dark. But I shouldn’t judge on family or childhood behavior, right? I’m almost nothing like my family, Black was nothing like his own, and Harry’s grandmother was another Black you know,” the undersecretary seemed to be veering into tangent territory.

“Was she a bint, then?” Oliver drew back as Percy whirled around to him with blazing eyes.

“That is _quite_ rude, Oliver!” he scolded, “She might’ve been a rather nasty little girl, but please don’t use that language.”

“Sorry, sorry, Percy,” the keeper shrugged it off harmlessly. Years of rooming with the redhead taught him to pick his battles, especially when he was probably in the wrong anyway, “But I remember her slinging around ‘mudblood’ as much as the other snakes, you know.” 

Percy winced and turned away, biting his thumbnail again, “I know. You’re right. She was awful. But marrying into the Parkinson line would be wonderful for my career.” 

“Are you trying to convince me or you?” Oliver sidestepped the whinge quickly, “Mate, you could do anything you wanted. You’re brilliant and fought on the winning side of the war--made the list of heroes in the Prophet and earned an Order of Merlin for your services at the Battle--adding her last name to your own would only help a little… and do you really want to say you got your job because of your wife’s name?” That probably wasn’t fair, but Percy obviously wanted somebody to argue against…

“There are plenty of capable people with notable last names,” Weasley huffed, predictably, “Although you are right. I wouldn’t want that stigma attached to me. There is the matter of the dowry and the familial alliance they proposed as well, though.” He quickly summarized the linking of House Parkinson and House Weasley, and the protection offered by House Flint.

“Flint?!” Oliver squawked in outrage, “What’s that nasty blighter doing offering an alliance to you all? His family’s dark as they come, the lot of them!” he said furiously, standing to join Percy under the tree.

“Oh, hush. Unlike most of the purebloods, only one Flint has ever been even accused of being a Death Eater, and he was in his nineties and unmarked. I think they are like the Parkinsons and Greengrasses, really, in that they prefer to remain neutral until there’s a clear winner. Very Slytherin, if you think about it,” Percy said offhandedly. Oliver rolled his eyes. 

“So you marry the Parkinson girl and Marcus becomes your leige lord?” 

“No, no,” Percy rushed to explain, “The Parkinsons and Flints are both members of the sacred twenty-eight, like our family. If anything, I’d become a liege lord over a few minor houses like the Elstones in Cornwall and the Marbrights out on the Isle of Man.”

“Then what’re the Flint’s doing muddying up the place?” Oliver demanded. He thought briefly about Marcus in his Falcon’s uniform flying above the pitch, barely looking at him except when they collided bodily in front of the hoops. The dark haired brute was still imposingly tall and egregiously handsome, moreso after he grew into his teeth in his second NEWT year and sprouted some facial hair. 

“Well, they’ve got quite a bit of pull at the ministry, you know, and Marcus is the new lord ever since his father passed away last year,” Oliver didn’t know that, but he almost wished he did so he could’ve sent a card or a letter or any sort of condolence… not that he would have, but the opportunity would’ve been nice. 

“He is a liege lord,” Percy continued, “over Houses Blishwick, Mulciber, Tripe, and Pucey, and he is performing as Regent for the Parkinson line because, as I understand it, Pansy’s father is quite ill in his old age. Moreover, by himself he commands eight votes in the Wizengamot because of those fealties and his minor titles as Lord Pike and Lord Orpington. If he chose to vote on a block, the Flints have political alliances dating back centuries with Houses Fawley, Nott, Avery, Bulstrode, Greengrass, Parkinson, and Malfoy--all other sacred twenty-eight members. I have no idea about his French ties, though,” Percy spouted off to Wood’s uncaring visage. It was incredibly hard to imagine Marcus, who failed his NEWT year by one class and had to return for a second seventh year because of a failed Herbology score (arguably one of the easiest classes) in formal robes or even as a leige lord.

“He’s French?” Wood added pointlessly, but Percy nodded promptly.

“Of course, his mother is a pureblooded French-woman from the Lefrancois family in Brittany,” his hand waved away what was sure to be a litany of questions following that brisque statement, “That doesn’t matter, Oliver. What’s important is that Pansy and Marcus are extremely close, hence his regency. Apparently they were raised together and they are first cousins, basically siblings to each other, I suppose,” the redhead mused. Oliver furrowed his brow in consternation. The bulky and stoic Slytherin never hinted at any fondness for anyone in the entire time Oliver knew him at school, much less a tiny firsty in the den of the snakes. Marcus was rarely even seen with friends, only one or two cohorts willingly hanging around him outside quidditch. If he wasn’t on the pitch, he was usually skulking around the dungeons or sitting on the covered bridge with other Slytherins. 

“Marcus doesn’t like anybody,” he said appropriately. Percy chuffed a laugh.

“I’m sure he has at least a passing familiarity with family relationships, Oliver,” he chortled to himself, “I have it on good authority that he’s quite fond of his mother, you know.”

Oliver raised both eyebrows and held up both hands in surrender, “Who might you be whisperin’ too while you’re s’posed to be schmoozing up the upper classes? And why would they tell ye’ that Flint’s a momma’s boy?”

Percy covered his mouth as a bark of laughter more suited to one of the twins or Charlie escaped him, “Audrey _is_ a pureblood, you know. The House of Patzer isn’t even Noble, though, much less Ancient, so I’m not surprised you didn’t notice. I don’t think they even have a spot on the Wizengamot anymore--might go to their liege lords: Longbottom.”

“All those lunch dates you go on,” Oliver held his hands up and slapped them over Percy’s defiant mouth, “Yes, _dates_ ,” he continued, “Are really just a ruse so you can whisper to a lass and collect all the juicy gossip? Percival Ignatius Weasley, I am appalled.”

“Oh, go on,” Percy blushed and swatted at Oliver’s clammy hands, smacking them away from his face and stepping out of reach, “She just mentioned that most pureblood boys are rather more… _attached_ to their mothers than is typical outside wizarding society.” He said primly and brushed down the front of his jacket. 

“No, no! You said Flint specifically!” Oliver needled, poking at Percy’s exposed sides and pinching what little skin he could reach. They ended up running around the tree a few times just like when they were in school together and the only boys in their year, forced to be friends but immensely well matched just the same. 

“I give, I give!” Percy panted from the dusty ground. Oliver released his arm, held behind the redhead’s back, and flopped on the ground next to him. Quidditch was one thing, but wrestling with your mates was another workout entirely.

“So, Flint?” Oliver said breathlessly after taking a moment to try and take in air. Percy shook his head in exasperation.

“Audrey mentioned,” He said coolly, “that Flint is well liked by most of the pureblooded girls on the, ahem, _wedding market_ because he is exceptionally kind to his mother, almost doting on her. Of course, she is in her mid-seventies, you know.” Percy fixed his glasses, which were knocked askew in the scuffle. 

“She’s that old?” Oliver said, “Blimey, what did his dad die of again?”

“Old age,” Percy supplied, “Or complications from it, I gather. The man was in his hundred-twenties, after all.” They both paused and wrinkled their faces, unwillingly imagining the coupling of such a ...timeless pair.

“He would’ve been a hundred years old when she was fifty! And her, pregnant at that age!” Oliver marvelled with horrified fascination and thought briefly of a childhood where his parents were both more than half a century older than him. It sounded lonely, even in thought. Marcus and Pansy’s relationship made more sense suddenly. Oliver was himself an only child, but his parents were young by pureblood standards at thirty and forty respectively when he came into the world. 

“I don’t give it much thought, to be honest,” Percy said and rolled over, pushing himself up. He offered a thin hand to his friend and Oliver used it to hoist himself back onto his feet. 

“Never pictured Flint as a loving, dutiful son,” Oliver remarked after a moment. They retook their seats on the picnic table and Percy flipped his parchment over, delineating a line down the center and labeling each side ‘Pros’ and ‘Cons’. 

“I’ll just put ‘last name society clout’ and ‘money’ in the pros, shall I?” Percy asked rhetorically and scribbled them both down, “But I’m sure cons will come quicker…”

“She’s vain,” Oliver said immediately, remembering the snooty thirteen year old girl with the Witch Weekly catalogue and overabundance of hair ribbon, “She’s possibly dark, and even if she isn’t a lot of her friends are confirmed dark or at least… dark grey,” he finished lamely.

Percy wrote those in the ‘cons’ section and reverted back to the ‘pros’, “Ministry connections,” he said briefly, then darted over to ‘cons’ again, “don’t know her very well,” he remarked to Wood. They both nodded. They both looked back at the list. 

“Rather short, isn’t it?” Oliver stated, rather unnecessarily, “And I think we have a tie, to make it worse.” They both sighed and stewed for a few moments until Percy suddenly straightened with a smile.

“We’re making this list under false assumptions!” He said gleefully, as if this was the single greatest thrill in his lifetime, “We keep referring to this as if she will immediately be my wife if I agree, but this is just a courting contract. It’s only a year of dating, and then we make a decision.” He looked proud of himself for the moment.

“So, you would get to know her for a year and then we could properly fill out the list?” Oliver said dubiously, but Percy nodded in excitement.

“Think of it as research, Ollie!” The man was practically foaming at the mouth at the thought of such a hands-on and personal investigation. 

“Because that’s what every bird wants to hear when you debate the merits of dating her,” Wood snarked back. Percy only deflated a little bit though.

“It’s not as if I’ll notify her on the first date, ‘oh dear, Pansy, I’m evaluating our every interaction to judge if our relationship is doomed to fail or not--”

“Isn’t that what everyone who dates is doing all the time?” Oliver butted in. Percy paused and scrunched his face, then turned a light red shade.

“I suppose you’re right… but this way seems a little more callous. Maybe it’s the contract making me think like that,” He tapped his fingers on the wood of the table and ran a hand through his hair. Oliver left him to it for a moment before poking him again.

“Suppose datin’ her would be the first step to finding out more about her, eh?” the keeper said with what he hoped was an encouraging look. Percy nodded a little, biting his lip.

“It _is_ nonbinding…” he trailed off.

Oliver clapped him on the shoulder and shook him a little, “There you go! Date her for a bit, then let her down easy if it turns out she’s as much of a pureblood priss as we think she is!” Now that there was a concrete plan in place, Percy seemed to rally around himself and Oliver, standing and gathering his materials into his satchel bag.

“You’re right!” he said as he shoved a messy lump of parchment back into the bag, “I have an entire year and around thirty dates to decide if I like her or not. We could be perfect matches or sworn enemies by the end, but what have I got to lose?” 

“Your self respect, some dignity maybe?” Oliver posed helpfully.

“Living with the twins? I have enough to drop along the way as I flee the scene, don’t worry,” Percy said and shouldered his bag. The two began the walk back to the Burrow properly, climbing the slightly inclined lump they called a hill with slow steps. 

“Then really, nothing to lose!” Oliver congratulated, “Best case scenario, you get a good girlfriend and later a wife, plus a heap of galleons from her dowry and all those political pros you listed. This’ll be simple!” 

“I hope the chaperoned dates go well. That reminds me, would you be mine? Each party has to have one and I don’t fancy having my father on a date with me,” Percy hedged, the tips of his ears turning red. Oliver laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Of course, mate! S’what I’m here for. Who’s the other cove?” They crested the hill and started down the other side. The sounds of banging and shouting got ominously louder.

“She’s bringing Marcus, naturally,” Percy said with embellished happiness, “And I’ll beg you ahead of time to please _ignore_ him. For the love of Merlin, Oliver, do _not_ let him turn our dates into bloodbaths.” 

Oliver frowned in offense at the slight to his character, “Hey! He starts it usually,” He paused for a moment as they came up to the cobble path to the door, pulling his wand out of his pocket and twirling it a little in thought. He added as an afterthought, but a completely sincere one,

“But I’ll try.” 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting on my phone so please forgive any mistakes! Thank you all so much for the reviews, kudos, bookmarks, and subscriptions <3


	4. The First Date

Marcus fixed his tie for the third time in as many minutes and cast a quick tempus charm, “Ten minutes, Pansy!” he yelled up the stairs. There was a loud thunking noise and then the girl herself tumbled to the banister. 

The interior of Parkinson manor was elaborate, owing to the many renovations done over the centuries. Parkinson women were notoriously finicky and often as soon as a new Lady was instated the house underwent a series of reconstructions and redesigns to fit her desires. Pansy’s mother preferred the elaborate and intricate rococo style, as evidenced by a magical original of The Swing by Jean-Honoré Fragonard (complete with dress fluttering in the breeze and a lovesick nobleman resting in the flowerbed as the woman swung above him) and the giant, twin stone staircases winding around the center of the room. Pansy hung herself over the stone wall lining the balcony and glared at him. Her hair was brushing itself and she looked frazzled.

“This level of perfection takes _time_ , Marcus!” She hissed, but even that echoed in the cavernous entryway, “Besides, I’m almost done. My hair will finish in a moment and then I just need shoes.”

She disappeared back into the Hall of Sleeping, as she called it growing up. Marcus sighed and sat down on the settee near the door. He resigned himself to making friends with the portrait of Perseus Parkinson, former Minister for Magic, hanging in the center of both staircases. He opened his mouth to mention just as much but before he could utter a word the old man harrumphed and stood, then walked directly out of his frame. 

“Didn’t want to talk to you anyway,” Marcus sulked and tapped his foot on the marble floor. Minutes ticked by and he cast tempus again, wincing at the time. He stood to go get Pansy, shoes be damned, when she rushed down the staircase ready to go. 

Pansy held a cobalt blue wool cloak cut shorter than the standard, ending mid thigh, with a crup clasp, the symbol of House Parkinson, near the throat. She was wearing a very pale olive green halter dress that hung loosely from her thin frame. The hem itself came to just below the cloak’s end and she apparently chose a pair of black flats to go with the outfit. His cousin handed over the cloak and reached behind her neck, moving her rather thick hair to one side and combing it over with her fingers. She took back her cloak and fastened it quickly before taking his arm in a pinching grip.

“We don’t _have_ to go, you know,” Marcus said in a bored tone, actually hoping she would agree and they could have a cup of tea and he could get back to moping in the manor. Pansy rolled her eyes and rushed him out the front doors, which opened and shut behind them without command.

“We are going and I’m going to woo the pants off of Weasley,” She said furiously as they frog marched down the long cobbled drive. When the Parkinsons hosted balls or galas it was a common sight to see carriages coming to and from the manor, but normal life called for much tamer modes of transportation. Marcus wrinkled his nose at the thought of Weasley’s pants.

“Feel free to leave me out of the loop for that,” he said gruffly and flicked his wand at the gates to open them, “I’d prefer not to think about the ponce’s underthings, much less yours and infinitely less so the two of yours mingled together.” He shuddered theatrically and yelped when Pansy pinched him under the arm.

“Behave! Or I’ll tell Auntie you sabotaged my chance at happiness!” Pansy spoke loudly and just as they reached the apparition point. Marcus shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, still pretty short. Still, it was clear Pansy was quite nervous. It was not her first date, per se, but it was her first date with purpose. The various trips to Madame Puddifoot's in Hogsmeade were just idle pastimes that most purebloods engaged in. While Zabini and the elder Greengrass sister romanced publicly, that type of courting wasn’t the norm in polite society. The Gryffindors were notorious for flouting the traditions here too, but that was no doubt due, at least in part, to their increase in muggle-born students compared to the Slytherins. The Ravenclaws also tended to be fleeting in their romantic interests, and the Hufflepuffs generally followed the Gryffindor lead to a lesser degree. Marcus dated a number of girls and one boy from both Ravenclaw and Slytherin, none lasting more than a single date and some broom closet liaisons. It just wasn’t overly common to marry the first person you were paired with in Potions, as his father used to say.

Obediently, he kept silent and patted her hand as if to convey a ‘there, there’ he’d never say. Pansy seemed to appreciate it. 

“Shall I apparate us or will you make yourself useful?” She said snootily. Flint snorted and brought his own wand out of his sleeve. His own cloak was the full traditional length but underneath showed the mugglish looking clothing favored by the American wizarding community with a long sleeved white button down, charcoal vest, and black tie. His mother told him he looked like a teacher from her own days in school. Marcus didn’t know if that was a compliment or not. Regardless, Pansy didn’t make him change and he knew if she didn’t like his outfit she would have no compunctions altering it herself.

They disappeared to the Leaky Cauldron in a loud crackle.

___________________________________________________________________________

Oliver threw himself on Percy’s bed and groaned as yet another tie hit him in the face. 

“ _Please_ just pick something! At this rate we’ll just be late and it won’t matter what you’re wearing because you’ll have offended her doubly so by standing her up!” Percy poked his head out of his closet just to glare at him and didn’t even dignify that with a response. He buried himself back in the closet and Wood lost sight of him. The keeper’s own outfit was the simple dress outfit from his Quidditch team, which amounted to a grossly expensive pair of trousers, polished black shoes, and an Oxford button down with the Puddlemere logo on the cuffs. He thought he looked rather dashing, actually, but Percy insisted he pair it with a tie--which he picked ten minutes ago. Percy was another story.

“Which of these two, d’you think?” the redhead asked nervously, holding up a dark green tie speckled with tiny silver polka dots (which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be stars) and a blue and silver diagonally striped one. Oliver dully pointed at the green one.

“Slytherins like green, eh?” he said to Percy’s questioning look. The man groaned but slipped the thin material around his neck and began a knot without looking in the mirror. 

“I just don’t want her to immediately cast me off. If anyone’s doing the casting, well, uh, you know,” Percy stammered and Oliver laughed outright at the implication. 

“This is a terrible way to begin a date!” he said with another laugh, but he did sit up and begin retying his shoes. Percy seemed to agree with him, though, as he deflated in front of Oliver’s eyes.

“It really isn’t that romantic, is it?” he said forlornly, “I always imagined I would meet somebody at work or the library and we’d get tea or lunch and bond over paperwork or books or… you know, anything besides an arranged match with pureblood fanatics.”

Oliver stood and placed his hands on his best friend’s shoulders, staring into his eyes. Percy decided to forego the glasses for the date.

“Hey, you’re the one who told me the Parkinsons are neutral, yeah?” Percy nodded, “Alright then, and the Flints as well?” Another nod, “Well there you go. You could always ask about her feelings about that stuff, anyway. If she says something nasty then we cut out, no harm and no foul.” 

“You make it seem so simple,” Percy sighed again, “I don’t want to rule her out just because of her last name, you know, but there are all the things I’ve heard from the younger ones…”

“Yes, yes. She was a terrible preteen and an insufferable classmate. So was Penelope and you had a right good time with her,” Oliver poked him and then stepped to the door, grabbing his cloak and Percy’s off the hook. They stepped into the main room of the apartment and Percy rushed to the window to let Hermes in. The screech owl pecked his owner’s hand a few times and flew to his perch in the corner, evidently done socializing for the day. Oliver shook his head at the barmy bird and matching best mate. 

“Flint will be there,” Percy said suddenly, and avoided looking at Oliver while he cast a quick tempus. He took his cloak from Oliver’s clenched fingers and nudged the taller boy towards the front door. 

“I’m sure we will have a good time staring at each other from two tables away,” Oliver grumbled, “Maybe I could get a table on the opposite side of the restaurant and not have to speak to him at all.” 

“Well, decide quickly if you’re going to be polite or not because we must be off.”

Growling, Oliver flung open the door and they rushed together to the shared landing between the four apartments. Percy’s building was all magical folk, even though the first level were all elderly squibs. The apparition point was the only part of the building also connected to the floo, with a fireplace on all five floors’ common level. The rest was warded specifically by the Department of Magical Transportation (of which Percy was a proud member) to prevent any sort of magical travel outside of that designated area. Luckily the room was empty of visitors or nosy neighbors. Oliver grabbed a handful of floo powder and stepped into the grate, looking back at Percy who was chewing his lip again.

“It’ll be alright, Perce,” Oliver said comfortingly, “I’ll be there and I’ll just start a fight if it looks to be going south,” he teased. Percy, expectedly, frowned at him and began to scold but Oliver just threw his powder into the stone floor and shouted.

“The Leaky Cauldron!” and whirled away into the floo network.

________________________________________________________

Delilah’s Delectable Delicacies owned the coveted corner spot on the intersection of Diagon Alley and Feduci Alley, slightly down the road from Gringotts and directly across the street from Twilfitt and Tattings, the upscale robe shop. Marcus and Pansy arrived in the lobby of the popular luncheon restaurant and took their reserved place in one of the circular tables near the back in a private room. Their seats had a large bay window enchanted to view one of five scenes: an overview of the alley, the fountain of the Ministry, a simple sky view, a river, and the front step of the restaurant. Pansy set it to the Ministry while Marcus pulled out her seat for her. Originally he argued they should try to arrive last to see if Percy would get her chair for her, but Pansy argued against it on the grounds that his brothers were all oafs and those sorts of small tests could be pushed off for later.

Nevertheless, as they sat there waiting for the other two in their party to arrive Marcus planned a series of micro-assessments to be done on Percy Weasley as soon as he entered the restaurant. 

His cousin, now in her natural habitat of performing for the masses in public, seemed much less nervous than before. She took up one of the menus and began perusing it, although he knew she would just get what she always did. He would too, of course. No use expending the energy on trying something new when he would soon be embroiled in the gruelling task of screening potential life mates for an irritating little sister/cousin.

Moments later their sectioned off area welcomed the host again, and Pansy and Marcus both stood up. Percy Weasley stepped into the room followed closely by none other than Oliver Wood, and Marcus forced himself not to react in the slightest. IT seemed to annoy the keeper if the slight red tint was any clue. The host left quickly as the tension began to ratchet.

“House Flint thanks you for agreeing to this meeting,” Flint began stiffly, and suffered a light pinch under the arm for it. He bowed to the appropriate depth for the heir to an Ancient and Noble House even though Percy was nowhere near heir apparent. Pansy bowed as well, choosing to stay silent. 

“House W-Weasley,” the redhead stuttered out before he was elbowed by Wood. He cleared his throat and continued with more confidence, “House Weasley thanks you for your gracious offer and invitation to parley.” 

Flint barely resisted rolling his eyes at Weasley’s word choice. Were they pirates? He grudgingly extended his hand first to Percy, who took it with hesitation but firmly, and then to Wood. Oliver eyed Marcus’s pale hand with outright suspicion but took it quick enough. Like in Hogwarts, the grip of each boy tried to outmatch the other, resulting in white knuckles and a few light popping noises. Both Pansy and Percy huffed and Marcus quickly let go while trying to ignore Wood’s victorious smirk.

“May I present the Heir to House Parkinson, future Lady of the house, Pansy Parkinson?” Flint extended his hand to his cousin and she used it to step forward just barely, then released him to hold it out to Percy. Her hand dangled in the air for a few moments as it seemed Percy had no clue what to do with it before Oliver nudged him and they raised eyebrows at each other. Marcus just about had enough of it when Percy started and darted forward to grab her hand, bending low to offer a kiss on her knuckles.

“The pleasure is mine, Heir Parkinson,” he intoned and Pansy seemed fairly pleased. She gave a slight smile and gestured to the hook by the door.

“We’ve already stowed our cloaks, please join us for lunch,” she was clearly making an effort to be more… palatable than usual. The problem with their family was they tended to overcorrect and now she was coming off sugary sweet. When the other two turned around Marcus tilted his head at her and mouthed ‘be meaner!’ and suffered yet another pinch and a furious pout aimed at him. 

The other benefit of the two turning around was a quick look at Oliver’s backside, which Flint unashamedly ogled. 

Percy returned to the table fast enough that he looped around to Pansy’s side and pulled out her chair, surprising not just the girl and Flint but also Oliver, who gaped at him with absolutely no decorum. Pansy positively beamed and Flint knew she was probably so pleased with herself for choosing the right Weasley. After the lady was seated Percy took his own seat and Oliver and Marcus quickly followed suit. Pansy and Marcus picked up their menus and spoke their regular orders clearly (tea for both, cottage pie for Marcus, and a minestrone soup for Pansy). Percy nudged his friend and they both glanced over the menu a few times. Wood ended up with fish and chips while his more uptight companion ordered the lunch variant of a beef wellington. 

Their menus popped away but Marcus knew firsthand that it would be a few minutes for the food. Unlike many businesses in the UK, Delilah’s didn’t use the labor of house-elves to produce their dishes. The owner, only some forty years old and quite spry, instead chose to hire recent Hogwarts graduates with a NEWT in charms. His former classmate and some-odd cousin Elysia Fawley currently did the appetizer station. 

Awkward silence reigned for a few moments as each side measured each other up. Wood and Flint glared at each other across the table with no small amount of enmity while Pansy and Percy observed the other with calculated disinterest (from Pansy) and outright fascination (from Percy). Finally Pansy extended the olive branch. 

“You work in the department of transportation?” she opened with, ignoring the fairly large elephant stinking up the place. Their tea popped in front of the group. The cousins added one sugar and a bit of milk, much more conservative than their preferred cup. Percy added absolutely nothing, taking a large sip with a pleased sigh, while Oliver obliviously put three cubes of sugar and a good dose of milk in. 

Weasley placed his cup back down, “Yes, it’s actually fascinating. I used to be the undersecretary to the Minister, but after the war I wanted a little less of that atmosphere. I actually helped ward my own apartment building recently.”

Pansy looked pleasantly surprised, “What sort of wards are needed on a civilian wizard dwelling?” 

Percy looked all too happy to explain and the two delved into a light discussion on the various means of magical transportation. Pansy mentioned that the floo network was a disaster waiting to happen and Percy quickly agreed, and they shared the opinion of the Knight Bus being a hazard to not just the people on the road but those aboard as well. Marcus steadfastly avoided participating (as his mother sort of unofficially specialized in unauthorized portkeys, ostensibly to visit her family in France but occasionally she would sell to an interested buyer.) Oliver looked wide-eyed between the two active participants like he would like to add something but couldn’t find an appropriate time to interject. Marcus took pity on him.

“How was your season, then?” he started gruffly. Wood flicked his eyes over to Flint’s and pursed his lips for a moment as if debating whether or not to converse with the enemy. Eventually his boredom must’ve won.

“Alright, ‘cept your lot threw us out of the running for the cup too early,” He said just as their food appeared. The other two barely seemed to notice, having moved on to their shared duties as prefects in Hogwarts. Marcus, also a prefect but unwilling to join in that terrible discussion, focused back on the keeper.

“The Harpies knocked us out just the next week, don’t worry. I’m sure one of these days it’ll be both our teams up for the League Cup,” Marcus started in on his meal while Wood chewed on that surprising compliment. 

“Harpies had a good crew this time around. Percy’s sister’s on their reserve next season, did you hear?” Oliver looked way too amped up from just this short conversation.

“Yeah. Was surprised to hear that, considering she only got two years of practice in at Hogwarts. Why’d you always get the prodigies?” Marcus fired back.

“She wasn’t even on my team!” Oliver exclaimed, but he was quickly shushed by both Percy and Pansy, “Anyway,” he continued, softer, “Who’d you nominate for the Dai award? We put up Tamsin Applebee but her barrel roll through the opposing team’s hoop wasn’t deemed dangerous enough.”

Marcus huffed and pulled out his wand, tapping it on his cup to refill it, “I tried to nominate Stretton, but I was outvoted. They put me up and I may or may not have received the award in the mail with a copy of next month’s Quidditch Quarterly with my face plastered on the front,” he said ruefully. Oliver paused with his cup halfway to his mouth and then set it down with a clatter so he could turn away to the door and act like he wasn’t laughing. His shoulders shook up and down and Flint shook his head in response, using the time to take a generous bite of his meal. Finally Oliver turned back around, his face red and wiping a tear from his eye. 

“Was it that hop you did over Elwhistle in the Magpie match? Like you did in ‘91 against Gryffindor?” He said breathlessly. Marcus shook his head negatively, turning a little red in the ears.

“That jump-and-summon in the match against Portree?” Again, Flint shook his head, thinking to himself that if he won so easily maybe he should cool down a little. That jump off his broom scared half the stadium into silence and his subsequent catch of the quaffle and wandless summon of his broom almost ended with him splattered on the ground.

“Had to be all those blatching fouls,” Oliver said with finality, taking a few chips and dousing them in vinegar. Flint sighed finally. 

“Actually, I’ve been told it was all of those plus a number of minor stunts that landed me the medal,” he said with no small amount of pride. Hey, he could recognize the things he did were stupid as well as cool, ok?

By the end of the hour Pansy seemed immensely pleased with her choice in courting partner and Percy didn’t seem at all put out. Pansy wasn’t a ‘pug faced little girl’ like his brothers all said and she definitely wasn’t a brainless doll only focused on fashion and hair charms like Ginny said. She had interesting and funny stories about her time as a Prefect, her experience with the floo network intricacies impressive for somebody not ‘in the know’. Although they didn’t (and he didn’t really want to in the future) get around to her family’s allegiance during the war and her feelings on muggles and the muggleborn, she seemed to be a capable, if normal, witch of her age. 

As far as first dates went, this was a bit of alright.


	5. London

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group visit London

So it came to pass that every first Tuesday of the month the group met at Delilah’s for lunch, and every third Tuesday they enjoyed dinner at a venue of Percy’s choosing (he usually picked Garamond’s, the well priced fine dining establishment whose entrance lay under one of the grand arches in the main Ministry of Magic hub). As the first date proved to be a major success, the next two also lived up to their potential. Percy and Pansy circled around each other like extremely curious dogs in a park and continually found things they had in common. For instance, both had an impeccable respect for the rules (Percy because of his unshakeable faith in authority and Pansy because of her unshakeable faith in her ability to loophole her way out of and others into trouble). It was the foreboding fourth date that Percy chose a different activity. 

“What is this called again?” Pansy said nervously as they boarded the underground. Percy, well acquainted with the muggle lifestyle after living in London so long, offered his elbow in the traditional manner. She took it happily and allowed him to escort her to a seat. Marcus and Oliver chose to stand, the former taking wide eyed looks around the car and gripping the overhead bar for dear life while Wood snickered at him not-so-subtly.

“The locals call it ‘the tube’, Miss Parkinson,” Percy said respectfully, “and we’re going to the British Museum. The tourist season isn’t in full swing yet and Marcus mentioned you’d never been. It’s quite lovely.”

“Muggle paintings don’t move though, right?” she said dubiously and Percy nodded. They faded into discussion as the car began moving. Wood and Flint braced themselves and politely turned away from the ‘couple’ to give some semblance of privacy. All the purebloods chose to dress similar, without consulting each other, and as if they were lazing about on a Saturday back in their Hogwarts day. Both Percy and Oliver were wearing their Weasley jumpers, in yellow and blue respectively. The cousins also chose their outfits with the mild weather in mind because both were similarly wearing jumpers, Marcus’s seemingly from the Falcons spring practice gear in a dark charcoal grey and a horizontal white stripe across the chest and Pansy’s a much paler grey with a cowl neck and another small crup pin on the collar, pinning it down on one side. 

“She seems to be taking this excursion well,” Oliver blandly remarked. Flint’s brow twitched but he barely looked over.

“Meaning?” He adjusted his foot on the floor and tried to ignore the ploy he was sure Weasley would attempt today. The Weasleys were… sympathizers; both Marcus and Pansy knew the issue of purity would come up soon.

“You both have never been out of the wizarding world, right?” Oliver started. He seemed to be trying to be polite about it.

“Not exactly, no,” Flint said, “She was homeschooled and I attended a small magical primary in rural France.” 

Oliver raised his eyebrows, “You mean you’ve been in boarding school since you were wee?” he said loudly. A few muggles looked over at them briefly and then returned to their own business. Wood didn’t seem at all repentant.

“No, if you must know,” Flint said quietly, leaning into Oliver’s side and leaking a pleasant heat all over him, “My mother’s family is from the area and still owns a chalet. We stayed with my Great Uncle during the school year and returned to the UK in the summers and on the occasional holiday.”

“There a large magical community out there?” Oliver asked curiously. He’d only been abroad briefly before the war for Quidditch training and even then he never left the compound, which was protected by a number of muggle and press repelling charms.

“Easier to hide in the mainland,” Flint said simply, “but yeah. Brumeux is the name of the town. On the shores of Normandy.” 

“What’s the French mean?” The car stopped and let a few people out and on, then continued on the track.

“Misty,” Flint said quickly, “It’s hidden from the locals obviously. Kind of rocky. Cold. Damp. Nice in the Spring, though.” 

“That sounds… good. I’m used to the cold and damp up in Scotland. Might be nice to see an all Magical dwelling, ya know, as I grew up in Inverness in the Highlands, hidden in the underbelly as it were. Living alongside the muggles isn’t bad but would be nice to go out and not worry about exposing yourself,” Flint blinked in surprise as Oliver basically agreed with his own views.

“That’s the gist. Don’t like lookin’ over me own shoulder wond’rin’ if somebody’s seen somethin’ they shouldn’t’ve,” Flint said quietly again, “Anyway, Brumeux is bigger’n Hogsmeade but not by much. The Paris integrated quarter is bigger.”

“Never been to Paris,” Oliver added in the ensuing silence. He never knew Flint spent so much time in France, but Percy had mentioned that his mother was of French pureblood stock. Still, it surprised him that the taller man had so much experience outside the country.

“I’ll take you sometime,” Marcus said before he thought about it. He turned away from Wood swiftly and ended the conversation by interjecting in Pansy’s a little rudely.

Finally the seemingly endless stops were interrupted by Percy’s beleaguered shout, “This is our stop, quickly, quickly!” and he managed to sound exactly like his mother on every September 1st since Oliver turned 11. They rushed onto the platform just as the doors whisked shut and Pansy fretfully tucked her thick, shoulder length brown hair behind her ear. Marcus made to step closer but Percy offered his arm. He looked to be getting used to that aspect of Pansy’s life, at least.

“It’s only a few blocks from the station,” He said kindly and started the brisk walk up the stairs. They garnered a few odd looks because of the way Pansy was attached to Percy’s arm and how Marcus was fixing to twist his neck right off his shoulders looking around. To many Londoners they probably looked like country bumpkins dropped in the middle of the city for the first time, which wasn’t exactly inaccurate. 

“I’ve never been in muggle London before,” Pansy said to Percy, “There’s… a lot going on.” She sidestepped a grate in the sidewalk and eyeballed the traffic light, “Why is there a little man on the box there?” she pointed and Percy looked up as well.

“That regulates traffic. When he is green it is the pedestrians time to cross,” he said promptly and the light switched just as he finished. Oliver grabbed Flint's arm and dragged him into the street amongst the crowd of people. Marcus would deny his squawk in the future but forgive him if the giant lorry truck surprised him with how close it got to the line. Wood pulled him all the way to the other street and didn’t release his arm, sliding his hand down to the taller boy’s wrist instead. Percy marched them down a few more blocks until they came upon the large exterior with its ionic columns and massive staircase. He paused at the foot so Pansy and Flint could each take a look, adopting a smug expression while they did so. 

Pansy gaped around the pavilion, “The muggles actually _made_ that?” she said bluntly and quite loudly. Percy laughed in obvious delight and began pointing out a few other landmarks visible from their vantage point. Wood turned to Flint, who was listening to Percy in an offhand way but mostly rotating his head around like a bird. He started cracking up again and released Marcus’s hand to cover his mouth. Flint found a second to glare at him just before Percy led the group up the steps.

Marcus paid for all the tickets (while listening to Percy’s flustered blustering and blatantly pushing Oliver away from the counter) with muggle money, earning a surprised stare from Pansy although the others didn’t seem to notice that part. A donation tin past admissions held maps, which both Percy and Pansy grabbed. They poured over them for a few minutes, debating with each other where to go first, and finally decided to take the recommended path. Oliver and Marcus both stealthily rolled their eyes at each other and then both looked away.

Percy took Pansy’s hand in the muggle fashion and led her off at a brisk pace to her obvious delight and the nearby officials’ slight dismay, although they were used to commotion. Marcus pursed his lips in dismay at the overly familiar display and pointedly stalked a few meters behind them. Oliver enjoyed the show and kept pace with Flint’s comparatively long gait.

“Oh! This is the Chinese section, then?” Pansy said excitedly, dragging Percy nearer to the wall, “Quong Po is from there, you know. I’ve an original print of his rendering of a Chinese Fireball from 1507.”

Percy seemed suitably impressed and incredibly curious, “That’s fascinating. I’d love to take a look at that. Personally I always preferred his potions manuals and instructions on preparing the eggs,” the two continued talking and marched onward down the exhibit, trailed by the two lumbering Quidditch stars. The taller gave brief glances to some vases and artwork, lingering on the painted scrolls as if waiting for them to dance or at least shimmer. Oliver couldn’t help but snort and then outright laugh as Flint turned a snarling face back at him.

“You won’t scare me with that,” he said pointedly, “I grew up with you. And besides that, I was never afraid to begin with and you’ve only gotten better looking in your old age.” He didn’t seem to realize what he’d said until it was already out in the world and Marcus had whipped his head around, the tips of his ears a light red. They both steadfastly ignored each other for the next two halls, including one with an Indian sculpture clearly of a sorceress performing a ritual and another of a Pacific Islander ancestral totem. The two more bookish members of their troop were eagerly hopping around the hall, Pansy whipping out her wizard camera and snapping photos much to Percy’s consternation and the muggles’ confusion. To them it looked old fashioned, but perhaps she came off as one of those girls who enjoyed older things for the aesthetic and not a blatant violation of the Statute of Secrecy that Marcus feared it looked like.

By the time they’d cleared the first floor, all of them were hungry and adjourned to the cafe area, conveniently at the end of the loop around the ground floor much to Percy and Pansy’s satisfaction. Percy and Oliver forcibly steered the other two to a table in the corner so they could get lunch and the cousins took the opportunity to have a private conversation.

“It’s going well, don’t you think?” Pansy said, pink cheeked and looking exhilarated. Marcus nodded and blindly hoped there was tea at the counter. He grunted in response to her anyway and settled more firmly in his seat.

“I think we get along very nicely. And he’s not bad looking, you know,” she said obliviously, “We agree on so many things, and have the same taste in art. Imagine the manor once we decorate it after our marriage!” she gushed. Marcus shook his head and sat up.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” he said, ever the pessimist, “You know he’s going to bring up the issue of blood purity soon, and you better have a good enough answer for that.”

“That won’t be hard,” she argued, “You and Mummy and Auntie have always said we don’t look just at blood… I just have to fine tune the answer so he can convince his mother.” 

“Hmm,” Flint hummed back just in time for their companions to return with the meal. Oliver crashed into the seat next to him, bumping their shoulders together and grinning wildly.

‘It’s a madhouse up there!” he said in the din of the food court. Percy nodded furiously as he handed Pansy her cup of tea. It was made just how she preferred it (actually!), and the smile she turned his way was almost blinding. Wood and Flint took their own cups and a portion of the food and they tucked in.

When they finally finished, Wood (spurred on by Percy prior to picking up the other two that morning) cajoled and pushed Marcus to allow the redhead and Pansy to go off on their own. Bored out of his mind and unpressured by the lack of any wizarding authority, Flint agreed after only a scant ten minutes of weedling. Pansy made a point to ignore them and spoke only to Percy as the two boys argued, but Percy could barely concentrate as he desperately tried to avoid Marcus’s notice and act like this was all Oliver’s idea. He nonetheless practically towed Pansy away from the watchful eyes of her cousin. She didn’t look too put out about it. 

“He will stay in the museum,” Marcus stated rather than asked. If Oliver didn’t know any better he’d say he was worried.

“If I didn’t know any better,” he said accordingly, “I’d say the brute of Slytherin is worried,” he grinned cheekily in Marcus’s face as they ascended the stairs to the second floor.

Predictably, Flint bristled like a furious kneazle, “I’m worried,” he said through gritted teeth, “about the state of the ponce’s mouth if I find he’s done anything...untoward to her.” 

Oliver looked nonplussed, “Hey, that’s my ponce you’re talking about,” he said, “And anyway, Percy’s not like that. I think the reason his other girls have broken up with him is because he’s so rule abiding.” Marcus grunted but he did seem to relax a little and steered them away from Pansy’s trail through one of the treasure rooms. They trekked through a few exhibits before coming across the astrolabe, which Marcus actually seemed to enjoy looking at. They stayed there for a few minutes as he walked around the case studying it.

“We have them at school, you know,” Oliver said, bored out of his mind, “What’s so special about this one?”

“I didn’t know muggles used them,” Marcus replied shortly, “My mother has one similar to this. She used it to name me shortly after my birth.” 

“Oh, right,” Oliver said, “I forgot your mum was really into the ‘divine’,” he used quotes.

“You’re a wizard; you know there is some truth to the stars’ reckoning of the future,” Marcus rebuked quietly, casting wary looks around for eavesdroppers, “I’m an Aries. What’re you, then?” 

“Leo,” Oliver said proudly, and not just because his House at school and his zodiac were minor points of pride. Not at all. Marcus snorted just the same.

“Of course,” he mumbled, then looked up with a slight leer in his dark eyes that had Oliver gulping with his suddenly dry mouth, “Those are… extremely compatible, you know.” and then he _winked_. The audacity.

“Let’s go into the chess room!” Wood said loudly, and got shushed by three people in entirely separate groups for his trouble. Flint shrugged and followed him through the arches. The Lewis Chessmen didn’t seem like they deserved an entire room named after them, in Marcus’s opinion, but Wood fawned over them and his strong Scottish blood for almost as much time as he’d spent on the astrolabe.

They meandered down the staircase and visited the restrooms, taking note of the oddly dressed fellow by the water fountains. Trading a look, they approached him. He was wearing a bright yellow fedora, brown checkered shirt, and green plaid pants--generally just being an eyesore and almost surely a wizard. He stood a little timidly in front of one of the few janitorial closets in the entire building and blanched at them as they approached.

“Oh, well move along now, boys! Nothing here but a coupl’a brooms and a mop or two!” He tried to rush them along.

“What’s all this then?” Marcus said and Oliver gave him a severe look as if to remind him to be polite. Marcus rolled his eyes and cast his gaze around once before lowering his voice.

“What’s behind the door?” He said, trying to be more inviting. Now Oliver rolled his eyes and took over.

“We’re wizards too, ya know,” The shorter brunette said with a winning smile. The middle aged wizard visibly relaxed and knocked twice on the door behind him.

“London Museum of Quidditch, mentioned in _Quidditch Through the Ages_ by Kennilworthy Whisp and the only full-sized, muggle repelling quidditch museum in the world!” He boasted, much more confident now that the boys had revealed themselves as magical.

Oliver’s mouth dropped open and he rotated his entire body to stare at Marcus. The taller boy stood frozen in front of the solicitor and slowly blinked his grey eyes at the open doorway that very clearly expanded past the threshold. 

“You’re,” Marcus muttered before gaining volume, “You’re _underneath the British Museum?”_ he seemed incredulous. Oliver still hadn’t closed his mouth or turned away from staring at Marcus’s profile.

The man puffed up again, “On location for more than fifty years, we ‘ave been!” he said proudly and once again gestured them in, “Don’t worry, boyos, when you pay t’get into the big museum we get a portion for ourselves… in exchange for a few stasis charms and full cooperation with the authorities, mind you,” he said as an afterthought. Oliver seemed unable to contain himself any longer.

“Marc!” he belatedly realized he had never once called Marcus by his nickname, only once overheard by a Slytherin while still at school. He pushed on, ignoring it, “We _have_ to go!” 

“Whinging already, _Ollie_?” Flint said cuttingly but he allowed Oliver to drag him through the door and down the staircase. Immediately they were assaulted by the familiar sight of all the UK team logos framed upon the long tunnel which led into a great room similar to the actual museum above.

“What should we look at first?” Oliver said as he dragged Marcus to the center where a large map displayed itself by rotating in midair.

“Brooms, seems like,” Marcus hinted and pointed, startling as the map zipped straight to his finger and seemed to center his hand over a room marked with a large ‘A’. In smaller print it said ‘Progression of Broomsticks from 962 AD to Present’. Wood nodded and took Flint’s arm again to loop them through the rooms. There were a few other families of witches and wizards but it definitely wasn’t crowded. The broomstick room held a few brooms dating from the middle ages and then moved up through the years. Oliver was almost salivating and Flint followed behind more sedately but no less intrigued. They devoutly read all the plaques in the room and held an in-depth conversation on their preferred brooms for sport and for pleasure, not to mention short distance travel. It turned out they both preferred a Cleansweep 11 for a short flight and Oliver preferred it for keeping but Marcus, a chaser, was quite loyal to his professionally charmed and personalized Thunderbolt 4 that the Falmouth Falcons famously flew on.

They traveled through all the exhibits in a loop around the center atrium, dodging the banners laid about celebrating the Harpies as the museum celebrated them that month, and managed to find their way back just as a small group was bustling through the doors. Full of obviously wizard children, they stood in a silent standoff for a few moments before one of them yelled.

“That’s the keeper for Puddlemere United!” which set off a series of gasps throughout the atrium as children and adults alike whipped their heads around to stare. Flint snickered as Oliver’s face turned a dark red color.

“And that’s the lead Chaser for the Falcons!” Another great intake of breath echoed around the room and now Oliver took his turn to laugh outright at Flint’s wide-eyed look. 

They spent the next fifteen minutes signing hastily purchased jerseys and photos from the gift shop and fending off the small hoard of quidditch fans. As they made their way to the exit, a shop employee caught up to them and thanked them profusely, then offered them each a signed copy of either Kennilworthy Whisp’s _He Flew Like a Madman: The Biography of “Dangerous” Dai Llewellyn_ or his other book _Beating the Bludgers - A Study of Defensive Strategies in Quidditch_. They took the books and scurried out to avoid another confrontation with overzealous schoolchildren.

Eventually the two found themselves back on the main floor of the muggle museum and, out of things to do, incredibly bored with their surroundings and everything in the museum.

Oliver turned to Marcus and gestured towards the door, “D’you want to take a walk while we wait for the lovebirds?” he asked. Flint glanced to the door and then up the stairs again, heaving a large sigh and extending his arm on instinct. Oliver grabbed it without thinking and suddenly they were walking arm in arm through the door, neither willing to concede this terrible battle of wills first. They frogmarched without speaking down the steps, ignoring the odd looks from several pedestrians, and hoofed it to the corner at Oliver’s tugging. 

“There’s a park ‘round this way,” he said absently, ignoring Marcus’s thick arm trapping his own to the taller man’s chest. Flint didn’t respond, but on entering the park he seemed pleasantly surprised at the vast open space in the center of the city. Well, that and the large group of casually dressed men pummeling each other on the lawn.

“What in Merlin’s name are they doing?” He said while Oliver led them to a bench. He sat on the stone seat without taking his eyes off the group. Oliver looked over and laughed, taking a seat next to Marcus without removing his hand from the other’s arm. They ended up sitting fairly close together, shoulder to shoulder and thigh to thigh. 

“It’s rugby,” he said quietly, “It’s a game the muggles play. Bit rough, if you ask me, but that’s what makes it fun.” Marcus watched with sharp eyes and noticed the oddly shaped ball soon enough.

“Not as fun as quidditch,” he said after a few minutes. Oliver only nodded, “But s’pose it might be nice to have a sanctioned brawl and have people cheer you on for bloodying up the place.” 

Oliver grinned and poked Flint in the ribs, “What, tired of getting booed for all your dirty tricks on the pitch?” 

“No,” Flint retorted, “It’s in our motto, ‘Let us win, but if we cannot win, let us break a few heads.’” 

Oliver snorted.“Right, I forgot the Falcons liked that sort of thing,” he shook his head ruefully and they, mostly peacefully, enjoyed the game for another half hour or so before Marcus jumped and shoved his hand in his pocket. A small compact emerged and he flicked it open, revealing a mirror smaller than his palm with Pansy’s face inside.

“Where have you gone? We came downstairs to wait and couldn’t find you!” She sounded slightly breathless but Marcus chalked it up to the copious stairs in the old building, completely unwilling to entertain any other explanation.

“Park across the street,” he said shortly, “Be there in a mo’” and he tugged Oliver along with him while shoving the compact back in his jeans. Wood obligingly gripped his bicep and allowed himself to be towed aside the looming chaser. 

The following meetup and side-eyes from both Percy and Pansy for their entanglement were well worth it when he got to share the tube bench with Marcus, allowing the older boy’s warmth to seep into his side and all along his legs as they crammed into the underground train, the taller boy’s arm along the back of the seat and his hand rubbing Oliver’s neck. Percy looked exceptionally pleased with the day and all in all it was a delightful outing and, dare he say it, another successful date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that's not actually where the Quidditch museum is but I don't care... I just wanted them to visit it


	6. On the Subject of Blood Purity...

“It’ll have to be soon,” Percy muttered to himself and his audience of one loyal keeper, “I’ve got to do it soon, Oliver.”

He was, of course, talking about the dreaded blood purity discussion to be had with Pansy. As they approached date number eight he became increasingly more attached and worried about her answer. Frankly, Oliver was beginning to think he should discuss it with Marcus as well because… their relationship was also evolving alongside the other two’s. Aside from sharing a bench in a muggle park, other dates (hosted by Percy) included going to Florean Fortescue’s for a few scoops of ice cream, where Marcus chivalrously paid for Oliver’s and then stole half of it by ‘trading’ licks for answers to personal questions, a stargazing and divination reading where the two bookworms bugged the seer into answering their questions while Flint and Wood pretended to share body heat on the fairly warm night, and a dinner where Percy insisted on a private table for he and his date… so naturally the other two also got their own private table had a lovely candlelit dinner to themselves. To name a few. 

“Oh, I know,” Oliver said as he tossed a quaffle in the air, “But I also know you don’t want to do that, Perce.” He laid back on Percy’s bed and continued throwing the ball in the air. Percy had his glasses off and was rubbing his eyes with stiff fingers. For the last few months he nimbly dodged all questions about his affiliation with the ‘mystery woman’ from his entire family. His parents already knew but between the three of them and the others’ very busy schedules they were able to keep it under wraps. But the time was coming to pay the piper and decide whether or not this courting was a viable match or if he would just be paying lip service for the foreseeable future until the contract ran out. 

Percy twisted his fingers in his hair, “I like her,” he said quietly, “I do. We are, personality wise, very compatible… but I don’t know if I could stand it if she were truly against the rights of the muggleborn or if she holds improper ideas about blood status. What do I do?” 

Oliver rolled over on top of the ball, pushing himself up on his elbows, “You have to, though,” he said seriously, “I know you like her, and she clearly likes you too… maybe she could change for you,” he said dubiously and then added on, “ _if_ she’s really a bigot.”

“But she liked the museum!” Percy cried suddenly after minutes of tense silence, “She asked questions and rode the underground with us. She said their architecture was impressive. She… she…” he stomped his foot, “She ate a large pretzel from a vendor cart!” 

Wood snorted and tried to hide it in his fist. Percy shot him a nasty look and leaned down to grab the quaffle from underneath his friend, “And what are you going to do about Flint?” he said snarkily, tossing the ball on the floor and kicking it to the corner.

Moaning in dismay Oliver rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling to contemplate his answer, “It’s odd,” he said and threw his arm over his eyes when Percy sat next to him, “In Hogwarts we could barely stand the sight of each other. Now it’s like we have all these things in common and I keep thinking that if he truly has blood purist ideals then I’ll have to throw away not just the possibility of a romance but the start of an impossible friendship as well.”

Percy audibly gulped and then sighed, flinging himself down on the bed and staring at the ceiling. They lay in silence for a few minutes again, both consumed by thoughts of their blossoming relationships and the inevitable either euphoria or heartbreak.

“There’s nothing for it,” Oliver said finally. He sat up and patted the redhead on the chest before flinging his legs over the side, “We have to know… for all our sakes.” 

__________________________________________

Marcus lingered in the conservatory of Flint Manor, tracing the golden outline of a small bird with his pacing. It was raining and the stone workers remodeling the main hall left hours before, leaving him alone once again in the huge home. The difficulty in redesigning a manor as old as theirs lay in the thick layers of protective warding and runes inlaid throughout the foundation. The stone workers didn’t just have to be masons but also proficient in warding or curse-breaking--or at least be led by someone who was. 

The snidgets were increasingly unhappy being cooped up inside. Typically Marcus would let them out in the morning and they would return at night to perch, the wards on the property and their own instincts keeping them close to home, but today was much too rainy to allow his mother’s prized pets to roam. 

The walls of this particular room were lined with aromatic flowers growing on vines. The wisterias arched up the glass walls and provided a thin shade from the penetrating rays of the sun that usually filled the room. This room, similar to the main hall, was one frequently remodeled. The Flints, like the Parkinsons, allowed those who married into the family to design specific sections of the house to their liking and decades prior the conservatory fell to his mother to fix up. The limestone floor, while practically blinding when the sun shone in, sucked up the ambient magic over the years and now the room itself actively helped plants grow and created a happy environment for the birds, the symbol of House Flint. The domed roof had four large circular stained glass windows with the unmistakable image of a purple fwooper for his mother’s house back in France. 

Sighing, Marcus cast a light misting charm over the walls. It fogged up the glass but the flowers visibly breathed it in… or was he imagining that? He shrugged and pulled out one of the small chairs at the wire framed table in the center. The click clack of heels on stone was the only warning he got before his mother appeared in the doorway.

“Marc, _mon coeur_ , why are you ‘iding in the bird room?” She teased and offered her hand for him to take as he rapidly approached her. He led her to the table and pulled out her chair, “Oh, but I did teach you impeccable manners, _non?”_

“ _Oui_ , Mother,” Marcus said quietly and retook his seat across from her. She was no doubt visiting him because he’d skipped tea. 

“But still rude enough to leave your poor muz-er alone at tea time,” Araminta said pointedly, as he knew she would, “Why ‘ave you ‘idden away in ‘ere?”

“I’m not hiding, Mother,” he said with a frown, “I’m just thinking.” And he really was. Sooner rather than later his maybe-boyfriend and Pansy’s possible future husband would start asking questions he wasn’t fully prepared to answer, and he doubted she was either. Although they exchanged one letter between them that was just a draft of what they hoped to convey, four months into the courtship of Pansy Parkinson and Percy Weasley left them with a still muddy document. 

“My son,” she said lightly, laying a hand on top of his, “does not think.”

Marcus blinked and looked up at her, their silvery eyes met across the table and she smiled at him.

“Forgive me, but you, my love, act best without thought,” she said bluntly, “Your attacks quicker, your moves more decisive… Your words sweeter. I cannot imagine a situation you can’t ‘brute’ your way through.” She ended on another smile as she pinched the skin between his thumb and forefinger with her own. He jerked his hand back with a heatless glare. 

“So, tell me what you are fearing,” She said.

“I fear nothing,” he lied. At her stern look he corrected himself, “Oliver… and Percival Weasley will ask us about our views on blood purity.” He said at length. His mother didn’t look troubled.

“I see no problem,” she said demurely and reached out her hand again. The skin on her backhand was slightly wrinkled and her fingers bore the ring of the Lady Flint as well as a member of the LeFrancois family. Marcus had the matching Lord ring and a smaller LeFrancois ring, denoting his extended status. He reached out and gingerly wrapped his fingers around her much thinner and infinitely more fragile ones.

“They are … sympathizers to the muggles and muggleborn,” he said slowly. She nodded like she understood but he was convinced she didn’t know the extent of their problem.

“Your grandmoz-er on my side of ze family is _une_ ‘alf-blood, and ‘er faz-er was _sans_ . ‘Ow you say? Non-magic,” Araminta nodded again decisively, “Your faz-er’s grandmoz-er, married to your great-great grandfaz-er Flint, was _u_ _ne_ mudblood, only 'alf magic 'erself.”

Flint winced at the slur and stared at her, then opened his mouth once or twice, “I knew that,” he said finally, “the new blood helps keep our gifts from seeping out like the Blacks’.” His mother nodded again and smiled softly at him.

“Ze ‘alfblood boy raised by your ‘Arry Potter, ‘e is a Black and a metamorphmagus,” she pointed out, “Your sight is a gift from my family,” she referred to his mild seeing abilities, mostly used in astrology and divining with the help of instruments like the astrolabe or a teacup. A few hundred years prior the LeFrancois family had a single seer famous for a single prophesy about the fall of the French monarchy, and her minor abilities trickled down through the descendants. The Flints, in contrast, favored more tangible talents and churned out professional quidditch players and talented potioneers or arithmancers regularly.

“They only shine because of the dilution, I know, Mother,” he grunted. He was honestly relieved--for himself at least. He and Pansy shared that grandmother, so she had that once he told her, “But how do I tell them I just… don’t _like_ the muggles? They are dangerous… and the muggleborn children coming into our world erode our culture and refuse to teach their children of it.” 

“Tell zem zis. Per’aps it is my upbringing, but I believe zis is normal to fear ze non-magics, especially in Britain… and tell zem you are open to changing your views,” She made it sound so simple. Could it really be that easy?

“Thank you, Mum,” Marcus said with a short smile at her. She reached out and cupped his cheek and then gave it a sharp but light smack. He jerked away from her and wrinkled his nose.

“You owe me tea,” she said primly. He shook his head and supposed he really did.

_______________________________________________

Pansy threaded her arm through Percy’s and eagerly led him into Delilah’s for their ninth date. He held her hand on his arm and nodded politely to the hostess, who was pretty familiar with them all at this point. Marcus and Oliver followed the two in sedately and gladly took their own private table in another room. Since the fifth date both Percy and Pansy insisted on a certain amount of liberty from their (her) diligent guard. 

Oliver beat Marcus to the door and held it open, giving a smug grin to the taller man as he edged through the door. Flint’s broad body scraped along the keeper’s front and the shorter boy bit his lip behind Marcus’s back before following him in. The table had their tea already on top and they placed their orders without looking at the menus. Flint sat and looked around, then spared a thought for Pansy and her difficult conversation. Wood was already eyeing him nervously and the chaser could barely stop himself from tapping his foot impatiently. 

Finally, once their meals popped into existence, Oliver decided to break the silence, “So,” he began, “I know that you know what I have to talk to you about.”

Flint remained quiet for a few moments and took a long drink of his tea before responding, “Our relationship,” he gritted out.

Wood ran his index finger over the rim of his teacup and looked down at the tabletop, then reached out with his palm facing up, “I’d like to hold your hand at least once if it’s to be over today,” he said quietly. 

Marcus reached out and brushed his calloused hand against Wood’s equally rough one, textured from years of gripping a broom handle in all weather. Oliver pushed his fingers up to thread them through the taller boy’s longer ones. For long minutes they sat in silence while they both dreaded the coming conversation. The faint sounds of the main restaurant bled through the door, which wasn’t treated with general silencing charms or runes. Finally, Wood released the other’s hand and they each leaned back in their chairs.

“Blood… is important,” Flint started, and already he could see Oliver sitting up straighter, “For the families it ties together, for the heirs it produces… for the gifts it keeps in the world. The muggles are dangerous--you can’t argue that,” he spoke sharper to cut off any protests as Wood leaned forward.

“They are dangerous, or we wouldn’t hide from them. The muggleborns come in and they don’t learn our ways, then, more often than not, they marry into our world and their children continue not to learn our ways. Our holidays, our rituals, our culture, Ollie, are being forgotten,” Flint spoke quickly and matched Oliver, leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table, “But we need them just the same. Their blood mixes with ours and enriches it… I just don’t want my history to disappear.”

Oliver was silent, staring at the tabletop and picking at his food. He understood where Marcus was coming from and couldn’t deny his own brief worries that the old ways would be forgotten. More and more each year more people wished him a happy Christmas and less a happy Yule. Less people showed up to the moon renewal ritual each month. Fewer used the stars to name their children… he glanced at Marcus again and paused.

“Would it help to mention I have a muggleborn and a half-blood in my direct lineage within the last four generations?” Marcus offered tentatively (or as tentatively as he was capable, which admittedly wasn’t very). 

Oliver returned a tired smile and offered his hand back across the table, easily clasping hands with Marcus again. Giving a firm tug, he pulled Marcus to lean over the table and met him in their first kiss.

“I think that’ll do,” and they smiled at each other. Just in time, too, as right at that moment Pansy burst through the door dragging Percy behind her.

“Marcus! We’re getting married!” she squealed. All three boys covered their ears. Oliver ducked his head down to hide a laugh and Percy turned his nose up to adjust his glasses with just the most reprehensibly smug face. Marcus just sighed and thunked his head to lay on the grain of the table.

"You still have six months left of courtship," he said darkly to the table, "and then we'll need to plan the damn thing."

"Oh, buck up, Flint," Oliver said with a bright smile while Pansy continued to bounce around holding Percy's hand, "I'm sure you'll be very involved in that process."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although Marcus did have a muggle and a half-blood in his ancestry, i tried to make it clear that the Flints themselves have never married anything less than a half-blood. they are on the sacred 28 so they have never /produced/ anything less than a first generation pureblood (both magic parents). hand wavy stuff here but thats basically what i was going for but math is hard. 
> 
> also sorry this one is a little bit shorter than the others. i needed the confrontation out of the way and this is a #no angst story so it had to be done. the next chapter is the last and i'm sad to see it end.
> 
> Also i don't go through the next dates but on the 13th (the first un-chaperoned between percy and pansy) i imagined that oliver and marcus both showed up to delilah's anyway bc at that point it was routine and they ran into percy and pansy in the lobby lol


	7. One Wedding and An Engagement

“I can’t believe we’re sitting at the wedding of Pansy Parkinson and Poncy Weasley,” Cassius Warrington muttered directly into his champagne. Helios Mulciber, Jr., Adrian Pucey, Terrence Higgs, Miles Bletchley, Derrick Bole, Simon Harper, Carys Tripe, and Rhiannon Blishwick clustered around their table in the ostentatious back garden of Parkinson Manor. The manor itself loomed behind the huge crowd of mixed high society and more common friends of the bride and groom. Luckily it faced the east, so the party was well illuminated by the late afternoon sun.

Unlike Flint Manor, the Parkinsons preferred to ‘spruce up the place’ quite often. The interior, of course, was redone when a marriage took place but the exterior sometimes went through a makeover more than three times a decade. With the help of magic, the gardens remained lush and, sometimes, decoratively overgrown. Instead of stone pathways surrounded by flowers and shrubbery, the back garden was lined in fountains encased in hedges until guests reached the pavilion near the property line. That area was large enough that most parties hosted in the summer and spring months could easily host nearly 200 guests--more with expansion charms. As it stood, there were countless ministry officials and representatives from every Noble, Ancient, and Noble and Ancient House in the UK as well as a few from France and Spain, not to mention the large number of half-bloods and other mixed company brought by the Weasley affiliation. Shockingly, at least two muggles were known to be present somewhere in the massive gathering… though you wouldn’t know just from dress.

In accordance with the new alliance brokered by the nuptials sworn that day, Parkinson and Flint (hosts for the evening, though Flint only in affiliation) along with Weasley noted in the invitations months before that the dress code was strict and, above all else,  _ enforced. _ The invitations also came with a beautiful calligraphic pamphlet detailing ‘appropriate’ outfits. What it boiled down to was a muggle black tie party paired with traditional, formal wizarding robes. This amounted to a great gathering of people dressed very smartly and fairly similarly. The groom looked a little too pleased about it and the elderly Parkinsons both wore delighted smiles alongside their daughter.

The ceremony finished quickly compared to some. After Pansy was presented by her elderly ailing father, Percy’s mother (blubbering a little) presented him and the ceremony settled in with a more common wedding vow done with the wands. It could be broken, but that was so rarely done that the duty was relegated to the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes in the Ministry.

Nevertheless, the reception was an impeccable party.

Pansy looked as happy as anyone could ever remember seeing her and she hadn’t stopped smiling since she emerged that morning, resplendent in the ornately embroidered wizarding wedding robes. Percy, according to the twins, appeared even more pleased than when he received his Head Boy badge or even the appointment to the Minister’s staff.

The Slytherin table looked around and spotted another table full of Slytherins halfway across the pavilion. In their general vicinity was a table completely full of extended Weasley family members, a table packed with ministry workers, and a table full of the entire Gryffindor quidditch team. Being mostly full of quidditch players themselves, this of course led to loud arguing.

“Can you believe Percy never told us he was dating a snake?” Fred (or George) said loudly. A characteristic hiss traveled to their table.

“Outrageous, dear brother. It’s simply outrageous!” the other jumped in. Alicia Spinnet threw a flower blossom at him from the puddle atop the table.

“Oh, be quiet,” she said and Katie Bell nodded next to her as she took a sip of wine, “I believe it. Why would he tell you? You probably would’ve ruined at least half of his dates!” 

The twins both held their hands to their chests in offense, “Alicia, please! And after we were so kind to accompany you and the lovely Angelina.” 

Angelina raised her hands, “Whoa, don’t bring me into this! I just came for the free food.”

“And that’s why you hold a special place in my heart, Ms. Johnson,” what had to be Fred said. Katie shook her head in disappointment. Her own date was a Ravenclaw boy, Alexander Montrose, who apparently boasted friendship with both Percy and Pansy through the intersecting years of Prefecture. 

“Pansy told us, you know,” Mulciber said boastfully, “In fact, we even knew about their courtship as they planned to ask Pon--Percy.”

The twins narrowed their eyes at the slip up but Warrington cuffed the other beater over the back of the head with a heavy fist before they could retaliate.

“Oi, that’s the Pansy-flower’s bloke now. Best behave, I heard Flint’s taken a liking to him,” He wrinkled his nose and some of the others sported similar looks, “What with them spendin’ so much time together because of the courting and whatnot.”

Ginny, who up until now had remained silent, triumphantly interjected while Harry tried to sink into his seat, “Ha! And did  _ Flint _ tell you that he’s dating our captain?” she said wickedly, ignoring the fact that Oliver had never, in fact, been specifically her captain. He was still extremely well loved in Gryffindor.

Pucey stuck out his tongue and Higgs leaned back in his chair with faux relaxation, “Well, can you blame him?” Terrence said leadingly. This caused all eight of the Gryffs to straighten with murderous looks on their faces. The Slytherins obligingly held their wands loosely in their hands… although they  _ did _ promise not to start anything (or even participate in an altercation) under threat of dismemberment from Marcus, Pansy,  _ and _ Weasley and Wood.

“I’m surprised Oliver can stomach being around such, uh, such,” Harry finally joined in at the insult to Wood but his famously sharp tongue seemed to be failing him, “Bloodpurists!” He spat out and both teams seemed fit to stand and fight.

“We’re just surprised Marcus can bear to be in Wood’s presence at all,” Rhiannon Blishwick put in diplomatically. She, like Pansy, needed to marry a man or woman willing to take her last name. With Flint as her liege lord, she was intimately familiar with the Parkinson-Flint cousins after having grown up alongside them. Unlike the other Slytherins, she was not quick to anger and actually enjoyed an extremely long fuse. Her cold blue eyes and dark brown hair often made her look, to outsiders, as if she couldn’t care less about anything not in her immediate sphere of influence but she actually worked in the Ministry in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures alongside Hermione Granger in their quest to improve the quality of life for house elves. 

“Yes,” Carys added and pushed her own mousy brown hair out of her eyes, “They hated each other to such a degree in Hogwarts that we collectively took steps to keep them from encountering each other in the halls to avoid the point loss,” she said in her sugary sweet voice. Unlike Rhiannon, she was already engaged and worked with Pansy in the fashion industry. 

The Gryffindors seemed to settle down some and the Slytherins likewise sat back down. The boys gratefully nodded at the girls for ending the standoff before it became a scene. Nobody wanted to deal with Flint’s wrath. Even years after Hogwarts he still held a certain social influence over them regardless of their solid friend group (of which he was also the unofficial leader).

“Shouldn’t you lot have Malfoy amongst you?” One of the twins said and Potter looked like he swallowed a lemon.

Simon shook his head and pointed subtly across the grass at the distant table full of Slytherins from Pansy’s year, “No. Flint and Wood negotiated and decided that in order to avoid an all out brawl they would put the little dragon on the far end.” What he didn’t mention was this was a medium-level snub to the Malfoy heir in repayment for his family breaking off Pansy and Draco’s unofficial engagement. It was only unofficial in that it wasn’t in writing, but for at least twelve years the Parkinsons operated under the assumption that Pansy would marry the youngest Malfoy and perhaps produce two heirs: one for Malfoy and one for Parkinson. But after the war, when Lucius once again careened through the loopholes in the law to avoid a lengthy stay in Azkaban, the blonde family didn’t even have the decency to warn them of the engagement notice for the Greengrass-Malfoy marriage in the Prophet. Suffice to say, except for Astoria no Malfoys were particularly welcome at social gatherings of polite company.

The dance area, held on a slightly sunken area of smooth stone and lit dimly with fairy lights charmed to get brighter as the night grew darker, held the bride and groom. Percy and Pansy were enraptured with each other and couldn’t be seen apart since their bonding ceremony earlier. Mrs. Weasley danced (or swayed slightly) with her husband, still sobbing softly and wiping her eyes with a patterned kerchief. Arthur also seemed slightly misty. There were a few other couples, notably the eldest Weasley and his French wife, Granger and the youngest male Weasley, Lovegood and one of the Scamander children (if the gossips were to be believed), and Marcus Flint and Oliver Wood. 

After the first few dances, where both boys danced with their mothers, and Flint with his aunt after his uncle pestered him enough, the Quidditch stars took the dance floor when the bride and groom stepped off for a moment. They didn’t want to steal any attention by bringing the gossip columns down on their heads. Needless to say, the majority of the guests did take a few moments to gawk (especially if they attended school with the boys). 

The Slytherin team couldn’t recall ever seeing Flint smile so much--or in public at all--but side by side with the Keeper he wore a matching smile to Oliver’s incandescent one. The wedding was as much a celebration of the bride and groom’s vows and the familial alliance as it was a celebration of their own successful courting period. 

The couple stepped off the dance floor and sidestepped yet another photographer from either the Prophet or Quidditch Quarterly. Prior to the ceremony the Parkinsons, Weasleys, and Flints posed for plenty of photos for ‘one of the biggest events of the year’, as Rita Skeeter put it. Truthfully, it was quite a big deal as three incredibly influential families were entering into a triad Alliance; and the Weasleys, while still growing in their influence after their part in the war, were credited with successfully ‘converting’ two of the staunchest pureblood families on the island. 

The two captains slowly approached the tables of their respective teams. Oliver pretended valiantly as if he had already told them of his relationship over the hollering of everyone at the table while Flint side-eyed his teammates and basically avoided the entire confrontation. Adrian especially was staring so hard as to burn a hole into the taller boy if he had the power to do so. Terrence had his head shoved under the table to avoid laughing directly in Marcus’s face. 

The girls at both tables cooed over them in a most degrading fashion. 

“Oh, Ollie!” Alicia gushed and reached up to smooth the sleeve of Wood’s robe down, “You both look so handsome… yes even you, Marcus!” 

Flint’s face looked pinched at being referred to by his first name. The Slytherins took a moment to either look away in pity or start snickering, respectively. The twins mimed ‘Oh Ollie!’ at each other and blinked furiously back and forth.

Carys sighed dreamily and waved at the rest of the venue, “Yes,  _ Marcus _ ,” she said sweetly, “you did such a lovely job with this wedding. Planning on making a career of it?” 

Oliver laughed out loud. It wasn’t a secret that Flint was basically manhandled into doing most of the traditionally ‘fatherly’ duties because of Lord Parkinson’s infirmity. While some things could be done at the manor so the old man could join in, things like organizing vendors and attending little family duties (like dress shopping and cake tasting with Percy and Oliver) had to be done on site. 

“He did do a good job, didn’t he?” Oliver prodded, poking a finger into the chaser’s hip, “It’ll be grand just making him do everything for ours while I laze about.”

Silence separated their group from the rest of the party for a few moments while Marcus slowly rotated his entire body to face Oliver, who was paling quickly. 

“Five galleons,” Flint said, “I knew you wouldn’t last the week.” 

Rhiannon slammed her hands on the table, damn decorum, and stood up. Her pale blue dress sleeves fluttered around the tops of her arms before she finished, “You did  _ not!” _ Carys grabbed her arm and yanked her back into her seat, but the damage was done.

Katie Bell leapt up with a whoop and basically tackled Oliver, who stayed standing only through strength of will and Marcus’s strong arm around his shoulders. Angelina quickly joined her until there was a small pile of Gryffindors forming on the grass. Flint stepped to the side and allowed his fiance to be buried once it was clear he couldn’t save him. 

“No-one here is to say  _ anything _ ,” he said in a low and dangerous tone, looking specifically at the twins, “Until the Prophet comes out in two weeks. Today is for Pansy.”

“And Percy,” George (maybe) said pointedly. Marcus raised an eyebrow and took a threatening step forward. The twins backtracked, “Of course, we didn’t hear a thing Ollie said, did we Forge?” “Absolutely nothing, Gred! I think I’ve got confetti in my ears from the procession!” 

Marcus spun around to glare the snakes into submission but he was only met with a wall of quiet composure with a hint of healthy fear.

“What do you take us for? Idiots?” Muciber said, “We’re not like Cassie--”

“Nobody tell Cassius,” Bole said and Bletchley nodded so fast it looked as if his head might pop off his neck.

“We won’t tell nobody, Flint,” his fellow chaser assured shakily, “I didn’t hear nuffin’.” The others were quick to agree, no verbal threatening needed. Flint nodded decisively. 

“If you all manage to keep your mouths shut, you can come to the engagement party,” he grumbled sourly and noticed the Gryffindors perking up, “Yes, you as well.” He sighed and finally reached down to grab Oliver’s arm, extracting him carefully from the pile of girls. Wood smile at him, smears of lipstick on his face and grass in his hair. Marcus wiped it off with Higgs’s napkin and then grabbed Oliver’s hand again to tow him away. 

“We’ve got to do more mingling,” Wood said in explanation, “But we’ll be by in a bit!” He said louder as he was practically dragged into the mess of tables. The two groups breathed a collective sigh of relief and then watched avidly as a smart dressed man with a huge camera followed the two from table to table.

“Ten quid on him being from Witch Weekly,” Spinnet said with a smirk and Carys leaned across the gap.

“What’s that? Like two galleons?” She said and when the Gryffindor nodded she handed her the two gold circles, “I think he’s one of Lovegood’s minions.”

“Luna wouldn’t hire somebody to do pictures!” Ginny said in defense. Harry nodded a little, still looking shell shocked at the recent news.

“She prefers to draw them herself,” he said but added, “But I’ll put two galleons on him being from the Ministry.”

“What about the Ministry?” Angelina asked. She’d only been once or twice for licensing issues and rarely stepped foot in the halls themselves, preferring to use the floo hub and get out as quick as possible.

“They send out a newsletter about all their members,” Blishwick said and took a sip of her champagne, “Usually it's got new babies, new lords and ladies, naming of heirs, that sort of thing. Engagements too,” she said belatedly after a slight pause. 

“Harry you’re going to lose us our invitation!” The twins said in unison, “What if Flint finds out?” they passed Alicia two more galleons though, “We’re betting on Quidditch Quarterly, like optimists.” 

The girls all shook their heads and the Slytherin boys all put in their galleons as well, but Mulciber surprised everyone by betting on the Quibbler.

_______________________________________________

Morning in Flint Manor, Oliver decided, was eerily quiet. 

After the Parkinson-Weasley honeymoon-farewell party tapered out in the late (early?) hours, Marcus and Oliver used the floo in the parlor to zip straight to Flint’s childhood home. Although Wood visited before, he’d never spent the night. This, he decided, was a travesty. Waiting a full two weeks after Pansy’s marriage before announcing their engagement seemed overkill, but Flint was adamant.

Marcus’s bed was either a double or a queen, he couldn’t tell, but the sheets were exquisitely soft and he had two long windows with curved tops, eight small panes of glass filled in the shape. They let in the sunlight from the gardens in big waves that hit the middle of the bed. Incredibly glad he woke up first, Oliver propped himself up on his elbow and proceeded to stare at Marcus while he had the time. He traced a finger down from the top of the older boy’s widow’s peak on his forehead gently down the narrow bridge of his nose. Both Araminta and Marcus argued that he barely looked a thing like her, but Wood could see it clearly in the gentle curve of her smile in his face (when he deigned to actually smile instead of smirk), the barely there cleft in his chin, and the remarkably similar mannerisms they shared. He ran his finger over his fiance’s cheekbone and the shell of his ear, careful not to touch the sensitive part just behind the lobe. 

Marcus possessed, in Oliver’s opinion, great shoulders. They tapered attractively into his narrow waist and quidditch-strong legs. The keeper rubbed his own against Flint’s bare legs under the covers. This was, after all, technically his first time in Marcus’s bed and the first time they ‘slept’ together. The taller boy mumbled something and rolled over onto his front, dragging Oliver’s arm with him so he had to drape himself partially across Marcus’s shoulders. He smothered a laugh in the back of Flint’s neck. 

He started laying a few kisses on the slightly freckled shoulder blades, following when the pale back arched away from him and curling the arm Marcus took with him underneath the taller boy to hold his shoulder from the front. Oliver ran the fingers of his other hand through his  _ fiance’s ( _ it’s so fun to say!) hair. 

“What d’you want this early in the morn’n?” Marcus rasped into the sheets. Oliver peppered a few more light kisses on the back of his neck.

“Just sayin’ ‘lo,” he murmured, sucking a small light red mark where Flint’s collar could cover it. Marcus wrapped both arms around his pillow and tried to hide from the morning for a few more minutes, letting Oliver have free reign.

“You’re paler than an Irishman in the winter,” Oliver said with a laugh and with a final groan Marcus rolled over. Wood leaned back a bit to let him and then flopped onto his chest, running his hand down the taller boy’s torso and up his side again. Flint shivered. 

“‘S too early for your shite,” he grumbled but wrapped one of his long arms around Ollie’s back. Wood was smaller but ran hot as a furnace at all times. 

“We’ve got to get up, you know,” Oliver said quietly a few minutes later, “The interviewer’s gonna be here soon.” In an hour or so the photographer from the Prophet would be arriving to take their engagement photo and fill out their announcement. Later it would be forwarded to the Ministry newsletter and perhaps the Quibbler or Quidditch Quarterly, depending on which ones wrote them back today. 

Flint tilted his head down and placed his hand on the back of Oliver’s head, pushing so he leaned up to meet him in a gentle kiss. They moved their lips against each other, smacking quietly a few times as they parted for air and came back for more. Finally they separated and Flint fumbled on the end table for his wand, casting a quick  _ tempus _ . 

“We’ve got some time for a lie-in,” he wheedled. Oliver couldn’t be bothered to fight him and they cuddled back down in the soft blankets and early morning light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well there's the end. i might return to these two because they are so cute and open to interpretation for each author. really i just adore the possibilities for Flint. Is this still a G rating? We showed at least one bare shoulder to the world and there were a few kisses... 
> 
> this chapter might also read kind of like those stories where the author has inserted a million cast members into one scene and needs them all to have at least one line of dialogue and that is partially what accidentally happened. I wanted both of their friend groups there but that was a minimum of 14 people if you did just the quidditch team from hogwarts so it got out of hand quickly. 
> 
> please leave me feedback! I love it so much.


End file.
